Comrade and Princess
by blue3ski
Summary: A truck backfiring, a spooked street sweeper, and an invite to tea. A simple meeting on a corner of St Petersburg changes General Gleb Vaganov's life - and his entire future. A retelling of Anastasia the Musical if Anya had accepted Gleb's invitation. (ETA: My personal playlist for this fic is up on my Tumblr (blue3ski). AND THE EPILOGUE IS UP!)
1. Chapter 1

It began with a sound like a gunshot.

He had been pursuing a young rabble-rouser who had been spreading rumors and negative talk about the new, hard-fought-for Bolshevik government of Russia. It incensed him, as Gleb Vaganov knew firsthand what the revolution had cost.

He was so close, but once again, the brat and his older friend managed to melt into the crowd. Exhaling heavily in frustration, Gleb turned to watch the street.

A young woman with red-gold hair was there, sweeping studiously with her head bowed. After the troublemakers, it was a sight that made him smile with approval. Now that was a good Russian comrade according to the new regime – no more entitlement, only equality and lives built on actual hard work. As she approached, he bowed to show his respect for her efforts -as he did so, a truck backfired loudly in the distance.

"Oh!" she cried out, dropping to the ground and scurrying away from the noise. Her broom clattered to the ground an arm's length away. Concerned, he hurried to pick it up.

"It was a truck backfiring, comrade," he explained, trying to reassure her. As he moved closer to her, she scrambled backwards violently. The look of terror on her face struck him – the wide-eyed, slightly unfocused gaze on, frankly, one of the loveliest countenances he had ever seen. He reached out with a placating hand, feeling like he was trying to approach a spooked kitten, and slowly lowered himself onto a knee so that he could meet her eyes.

It dawned on him what that sound might have meant to someone her age. She, like him, had likely lived through the worst of the conflict all those years ago. Gleb was not oblivious to how difficult the revolution had been for the people – nor was he unconcerned as they probably thought. He simply believed it was all necessary.

But kneeling in front of this girl, guilt for what the government had done to people like her wormed its way into his heart.

"Those days are over – neighbor against neighbor," he spoke, the only comforting thing he could think of to say. He extended his hand again, and this time, she took it and let him help her to her feet. She reclaimed her broom from him, and he was close enough to see her trembling.

"You're shaking," he commented, instinctively placing his hands on her arms to try and steady her. "There's a tea shop just steps from here, let me –"

"Thank you," she interrupted him, pulling away. His hand brushed the back of hers as it slid off her arm, and the brief touch left a tingle in his ungloved fingers.

"What's your hurry?" he called to her back as she rushed away, broom gripped tightly in both hands and shoulders hunched.

She turned in his general direction, head still down. "I can't lose this job. They're not easy to come by. But thank you."

"Wait!" He hurried to catch up even as a part of him wondered why he was pushing this. To his relief, she did not run.

"You're cold and clearly frightened, comrade," he pointed out once he was in front of her again. "That's no condition to be out on the streets in. Let me buy you a cup of tea, just to warm you up and calm those nerves."

"That's not necessary," she replied. But he could see a slight hesitation.

"It won't take much time," he assured her. "Please, I insist."

Finally, she raised her eyes to his, a small smile on her face. "Just a few minutes then."

He reached for her broom. "Allow me –"

"No," she said, firmly enough that he relented immediately, and they began walking.

"Have you had this job long?" he asked.

"No…not long. I washed dishes. And before that I worked in a hospital."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed. "You're a very hard worker."

As they approached one of his favorite tea shops, he noticed to his amusement, she was making sweeping motions with her broom every few steps. She scowled a little when she saw the mirth on his face.

"They can still let me go anytime they want," she said defensively.

"You can stop now, comrade," he replied as he turned to open the door. "Unless you intend to sweep their floors too."

The rush of warmth inside the tea shop was a welcome relief, and he could see it washing over her. He led her to the table he frequented the most and took care of ordering the tea. After only a few sips of hot tea with lemon, the color began to return to her cheeks. He hid his smile at the sight behind his own cup, content to sit back and let her savor the comfort.

They did not speak as they drank, but the silence was, to him, a pleasant one for once.

When her cup had been emptied, she set it on the saucer slowly. "I should go back." She sounded rueful, but also a great deal happier.

"Of course." He quickly drained the remainder of his own tea, and after a nod of acknowledgment to the shopkeeper, they set back out into the bitter late-afternoon cold.

"I'll walk with you," he offered.

"You don't have to – I'll go back on my own," she replied. "Thank you."

"I'll be going that way," he said. Which...was not entirely a lie. He would just be taking a longer route.

She did not look like she believed him either, but she did not protest further. They both looked straight ahead, unsure of what else to say, though he would steal a glance every so often at her.

When they reached the corner where they had met, he scanned the street for any sign that anyone might be looking for her. He did not want to be the reason she lost a job – although if she did, he probably had enough pull in the government office to find her a place…

"The coast is clear, comrade," he proclaimed, relieved but also slightly disappointed.

She smiled at him, widely this time. "Thank you for coming with me. You seem to be a gentleman after all."

They both laughed a little at that comment, and he marveled at how joy brightened her face, like a small sun in the midst of the bleak winter.

"It was my pleasure." He tipped his cap. "Take care in these parts."

She nodded and began to sweep again. He started on his way, but he found himself looking back.

Gleb believed in fate. And something was telling him that she was a part of his.

"Comrade!" he called. She looked up, startled.

"I'm here every day," he blurted out. He felt embarrassed even as he said it, and he could feel his face burn. "If –if you need anything."

With a nod to her, he hurried away, his heart thundering.


	2. Chapter 2

The clacking of typewriter keys filled Gleb's ears as he went through another Romanov rumor report.

The latest news involved a scheme being hatched to pass local girls off as Anastasia, Tsar Nicholas II's youngest daughter. Reading the report made Gleb's chest tighten – it brought back too many memories.

The princess was long dead and gone, like her family. The people refused to accept it, but it was a reality he had been forced to experience. He put the page down and gazed out the window into the streets of Leningrad. The city passed by before his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere, in a different time.

He had been a boy then, the night his father took up his pistol with a conflicted expression. He had told young Gleb not to look or listen, to cover his eyes and ears. Young Gleb had defied those orders, peeking outside across the street and seeing Anastasia herself, a model of pride and resolve even as she headed to her doom. He had turned away shortly after, but try as he and his mother might, there was no blocking out the sounds. The final cries of the royal family still rang in his ears as clearly as day. They had had a dog with them, and silent tears had rolled down his cheeks as its last whimpers died out.

But clearest of all was the eerie, terrible quiet after it was all over. Gleb lost the innocence of a child right then. His father came home, face grave and white as a ghost, and it had not taken long for his home to fall apart, for young Gleb to soon find himself alone in the world.

The new government took him in, and he understood what his father had helped set into motion. And why everything had been necessary. He vowed to carry on the Vaganov legacy, and his zeal and drive sent him soaring up the ranks of the militia, to the fine office he was in now.

And still the Romanovs haunted him, the silence a constant accusation.

No. He struggled to regain his focus. This was no time to ponder his personal demons. There was work that needed doing. He knew, as did the perpetrators of this plot, that there was no truth to this tall tale – it was nothing but a bald-faced attempt to rip off the former Dowager Empress, now a sad, lonely old lady hiding in France and trying to use her money to continue lying to herself, as the royals were wont to do.

He simply needed to catch them and make an example of those who would try to destabilize the new way of life for their personal gain, who would keep the dead from resting. Yes, to lay this to rest would be the greatest act of mercy he could afford to perform for the Romanovs.

He took a few deep breaths and finally managed to finish reading. The conmen were hiding in the old theatre within what used to be Count Yusupov's palace. Gleb shrugged on his coat and donned his hat. He slipped his pistol in his pocket. Nodding to some comrades, he slipped out the doors.

This was not something he normally did – he, as deputy commissioner, had the authority to send soldiers out to verify the report. But he needed some fresh air. He needed to be swallowed up by the city.

The chatter in the square was strangely peaceful rather than annoying, now that he wasn't straining to hear what they were saying. Still, he did not linger, his strides long and his steps to the old palace quick.

He was only a few feet from the door when he spotted a familiar face. The pretty street sweeper from yesterday. She was holding her broom almost carelessly at her side as she stared up at the building.

Gleb frowned as he drew close. He steeled himself – if she was intending to take part in the scheme, he would need to have her arrested.

"Oh, it's you," she said brightly, turning to look at him. He stopped short, caught off guard – she had known he was there.

"And it's you, comrade," he replied slowly, carefully. "What brings you here?"

She turned back to the façade, something wistful in her face. "It's a beautiful place."

He was not sure what to make of that. It was a vague enough excuse to evade capture, if she was guilty.

"I don't suppose that's why you're here," she added.

He decided to be frank. Innocent or guilty, they all needed reminding of their place in the new order. The legitimacy of the government would not be challenged, even by a street sweeper.

"No, comrade." His voice rang with every bit of his authority. "I'm here investigating a case. Funny business going on there in the palace."

"Funny business?"

"Have you not heard the rumors?" he asked, trying to determine if she was simply playing the fool. She shook her head.

"Some people have spread talk that the Princess Anastasia lives," he explained. "The once-Dowager Empress is offering a reward to anyone who can find her. Conmen" – he gestured to the door – "are taking advantage of it."

She frowned, visibly bothered. "That's cruel."

"Indeed. So many, like you, are admirably creating a future for themselves in this new world. And yet, there are those few bad apples getting up to mischievous activity."

"May I come with you?" she asked as he began to push the door open.

"No," he responded immediately. "I will put you in no danger." Leaving no room for argument, he made his way inside, taking care to be stealthy.

There was a soft swishing noise behind him, and he whirled, pistol in hand. He had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning in exasperation.

"Why are you here?" he hissed.

"I can take care of myself," she hissed back, her eyes trained on the barrel of the gun. Her raised broom provided utterly useless protection.

Gleb jammed the pistol back in his pocket. He should have locked the door behind him, he grumbled in his head. He could push her out, but they had probably made enough noise as it was.

The sound of a switch flicking and lights shutting off rang out in the distance. Gleb burst into a run, pistol raised. He flung the door to the theatre open, and this time, he really did groan in exasperation.

The lack of dust of some of the chairs and the tracks on the floor told him he had been on the right track. But they had escaped yet again.

"This room," she whispered. Her voice echoed off the walls. "Have I been here before?"

Gleb was trying not to glare at her as he stowed his gun for the second time in less than five minutes. "This was the prime theatre of the former Count Yusupov," he replied, his tone biting. "You might have seen pictures."

She sank into one of the vacant chairs, gazing around. She looked…lost, and Gleb found himself softening. He took the chair next to her.

"What's your name, comrade? If I have to report a failed mission, I might as well know who to blame."

She stared at him, frightened. "I don't know!"

"Comrade, I was making a joke." He held his hands up.

"Oh." She hesitated. "They called me Anya."

"They?"

"The nurses. They said I was found by the side of a road, a few years ago. I had no memory of anything before waking up in the hospital, so they gave me a name. And a hat."

"What happened to the hat?" he quipped, indicating her bare head.

She let out a small laugh. "I don't know either."

"Anya." He drew out each syllable, appreciating how it sounded. "It's a good name. Straightforward."

"And you are?" She gestured to him. "Only fair since you pointed a gun at me."

He conceded, although it was entirely her fault that had happened anyway. "Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov."

She blinked. "I think 'comrade' is easier –"

"Just Gleb." He was flustered again. This really was getting quite out of hand.

The shadows on the wall grew longer – it was getting late. He stood up. "We should leave…Anya."

She looked around the room one more time before she rose. "It's a shame. It seemed so…splendid before."

"The new order will bring a different kind of splendor," he assured her. "One that will not only be for the privileged few, but for all. General and street sweeper alike. There's no need to live in the past."

He let her pass first out to the street. As he exited, he took another glance at the faded beauty of Yusupov Palace.

Then he shut the door behind him with finality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Evening was falling, and the streetlights flickered on, coloring the surroundings with a mix of blue and yellow.

"Where are you headed now?" Gleb asked as they stood in front of the darkening palace façade.

"To the bridge." Anya did not look enthused at the idea.

"Your work is not yet done?" He appreciated hard workers, but there had be a limit somewhere – she should not be pushing herself too much.

"It is," She looked away. "That's…where I stay."

"You…live at the bridge?"

"Well, under it," she chirped, clearly trying to sound optimistic. "It's not that bad – there's shade, and no one really bothers me."

His heart sank. A girl like her, living on the streets by herself? And not even a good corner of the streets. Leningrad suddenly seemed harsher – each corner was shadier, the shadows more menacing. He felt a sudden desire to wrap her in his arms and take her somewhere safer.

But that was a terrible impulse and one he absolutely must not act on, so he said instead, "You're a brave one."

"I'm used to it," she responded, the forced brightness slipping out of her tone. "After I left the hospital, I had to find a way to survive. When you've had to sleep in the woods a lot, a bridge in the city is really much better."

A quiet desperation filled him at this new piece of information. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he very nearly pleaded.

"You don't have to pity me," she said firmly, lifting her chin proudly and meeting his eyes. In that moment, she looked positively regal.

He fought the urge to take her hand. "Let me buy you a hot meal, at least."

She started to shake her head, but then a gust of winter wind blew her golden hair into her face and made her shiver again. He hesitated, praying he wasn't being too forward, and put her his hands on her upper arms, rubbing them slightly to help warm her. She flinched a little at first, but did not shove him away.

"It's not pity," he said, stepping back and returning his hands to his own sides. "Consider it a gesture from a…friend." He cleared his throat. "At least, I hope we can be."

She looked like she was thinking about it for a moment, then a smile broke out on her face, making her eyes sparkle in the dimming light. "Thank you. I could always use a friend."

They began walking in the direction of one of Gleb's favorite dinner haunts. "How is it that you wound up in the woods so much?" he asked, jamming his hands into his pockets before he had any more inappropriate ideas.

"I walked halfway across Russia to get here," she explained, a note of pride in her voice at her accomplishment. "It became necessary at times."

" _Halfway across Russia?_ " He did not try to hide his amazement. "That's quite a distance."

She grinned at him, almost smug. "Like I said, I can take care of myself. And I took jobs wherever I could get them – that's how I've gotten by."

The smell of cooking food greeted them at the next corner, and they sat where the warmth of the fire was closest.

"And I thought I had it rough in the army," he commented. "I'll not take that for granted again."

"What was it like?" She leaned a little closer, curiosity dancing in her eyes. Or it was the firelight – Gleb tried not to look too closely.

The stew and bread arrived, and in between bites, he regaled her with stories of growing up in the strict environment of the Bolshevik headquarters after his parents died. He told of the early days when he would be picked on by some of the older boys, and how he had had to learn to fight back to force them to respect him.

She, in turn, told him what it was like to wander through the country, of being unable to sleep deeply for fear of being attacked by wildlife, of having to fight off people who tried to take advantage of a girl who was completely on her own.

"I'm very good with a stick." She indicated her broom. "I suppose I did pick the perfect job that lets me carry one around at all times."

He handed her a piece of bread. "My life seems simple compared to yours. I at least had meals every day and a bed." For all his authority and position, he felt insignificant next to Anya, this consummate survivor.

She chewed, pondering. "But I had my freedom. And I loved that. I think we both just had our own struggles, and it took courage for either of us to carry on."

They finished their meal, and Gleb insisted on accompanying her back to the bridge.

"The hour is late, Anya," he pointed out. "I would sleep better knowing for sure that you made it home safely."

She snorted. "Home. I wouldn't call it that. But I don't suppose there's a point in saying you don't need to."

"I would end up tailing you all the same," he admitted. He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Why must his traitorous tongue bypass his brain yet again? Now what kind of person would Anya think her new "friend" was?

It did not take long for him to find out, as she immediately pointed the stick end of her broom into his chin.

"And I'd beat you up for trying," she replied fiercely.

He held his hands up, laughing nervously. "Calm down. I promise you that I will never do it. Not without your permission."

She kept the broom there for another moment before lowering it, her eyes still blazing, and he realized that it would be the second time today that she'd pulled a weapon on a government officer. A plucky move, in this climate. Plucky…and dangerous, if she met the wrong official.

"So what would you have done if you had your freedom?" she asked, breaking the tension as she trained her attention back on the street.

"I…have never thought about it," he confessed, thrown. "There was no room for that…I simply knew where I was going in life. Make my way up the hierarchy of the government." Pride filled his voice as he recalled his cause. "Do whatever I could to effect change on Russia and make her great. From my childhood, my life has always been hers."

Anya was staring at him with a wistful expression. "I wish I had that."

"Don't you?" Someone as strong-willed as she, who had lived through so much…

"You probably don't know what it's like, when you don't know who you are," she explained. He flinched, but there seemed to be no accusation in her tone.

"It's like being shrouded in shadow all the time," she continued. "I'm looking for something, but I don't even know what or where or who it is. I have these dreams – a beautiful river, a bridge by a square…a city beyond compare." She paused. "Sometimes I think I'm supposed to meet someone in Paris."

"Paris?" He couldn't keep the mild derision out of his voice. "It's no place for a good and loyal Russian."

She laughed, embarrassed. "That sounded horribly unpatriotic after your declaration of love. I should apologize."

He hastened to reassure her. "It's your dream. Who am I to tell you it is wrong?" Although if he were honest with himself, he felt it was. But he had made enough poor impressions on her for one day.

"I don't even know if it is Paris." She sighed, visibly frustrated. "Shadows call to me, but they fade. I dream of light at the end of a hall, but I wake up and it's just dark all around. It all means something, so I hold on and hope these dreams are real – they are the only thing I have to put my faith in."

He remained silent, trying to take it all in. She was right – it was something that was impossible for him to understand. He had the opposite problem – everywhere he looked, there were reminders of who he was and who he was supposed to be.

And who he was trying and failing to be, if the bridge looming up ahead was telling him.

"I'm sorry." Anya took a deep breath. "I'm piling all of this on you – it's been a while since I've really had anyone to talk to. You don't have to mind me."

"I've liked listening." He flashed her a smile that he hoped conveyed how unbothered he was. "You've listened to me, and I think we've listened to each other. I do think that's what friends are supposed to do."

She returned the smile. "I really am grateful."

The smell of the Neva told him they had reached the destination, and he could feel the discomfort emanating from her. He stole a glance, and he could see her gritting her teeth as she tried to keep up a confident front.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said to the air in front of him. "You're far worthier of respect now than the most affluent aristocrat for building such a life for yourself, even with so little to go on."

He turned to her, undid his coat, and wrapped it around Anya's shoulders, knowing that she would need it in this chill.

"Gleb, you'll catch cold," she protested.

"I don't live far," he assured her. Which, again, was…mostly true. He had gloves, at any rate.

"I don't need it –"

"Yes, you do," he insisted. "Along with this." He whipped off his hat and rested it on top of her head. "There, now you have a hat again. Try not to lose it this time."

He stepped back a little to admire the sight in the dimness – Anya bulkier than ever with his overcoat, and the hat slightly askew. His lips twitched.

She heaved a resigned sigh and righted the hat. "I can't be seen walking around in this. People will think I robbed you."

"Anyone who tries to arrest you must go through me," he reminded her, pointing to his uniform with a grin. "You'll have nothing to worry about."

The cold was beginning to dig into his bones, and he willed himself not to shiver in front of her. "Good night, Anya."

"Good night, Gleb." The soft tenderness in her voice made him forget the winter for a moment as warmth blossomed in his chest, shooting all the way to his fingertips.

He watched her retreat into the blackness before making his way back towards the street. He burst into a light run as his body finally allowed the cold to hit him full force. As he raced to the heat and comfort of his home near the government offices, a frightening certainty began to seize him.

It was far too soon – it had only been two days since he met her. But everything in him was already clamoring to do everything for Anya (as long as she wished it). To protect her from the cruel world – a world that might one day kill her.

Even if it meant helping her get to Paris someday.


	4. Chapter 4

Deputy Commissioner Vaganov liked to think he had a sense of humor, but his comrades in the government would say it was about as common a sight as a royal in post-revolution Russia.

He tended to be stern, barely joining in their periods of levity and keeping mainly to himself when it did not involve an activity to further the Bolshevik cause. It seemed to them that he was constantly bearing an unseen burden, working himself to exhaustion to compensate for something no one could understand.

But one day, he was a bit different after coming back from the square. There was almost a spring in his step, a lightness to his normally grave countenance. A couple of days after that, he had come in sniffling and hatless, nose bright red, and ordered a close watch of Yusupov Palace after the conmen they were trying to apprehend slipped past him. On a typical day, the deputy commissioner would be agitated and furious, but that particular day, he seemed mildly irritated at most. They chalked it up to the head cold.

He started going on patrols of the city more often than normal, something he used to delegate to new recruits. He stayed out longer as well – sometimes, he would be gone until well into the evening. And when he did return, he would be bearing a grin – an actual grin – that he would struggle to smother, not that it escaped the eagle eyes of the secretaries.

Rumors began to swirl in the government headquarters overlooking the Nevsky Prospekt – word on the street was that he had met a woman. Gossip flowed like the Neva as the soldiers, secretaries, officers and even the cleaners speculated on who it could be. Not that the deputy commissioner ever managed to catch a single word – the government workers were just as good as the people when it came to that sort of thing.

One afternoon, a soldier spotted him on the street and hurried back to the offices with the reconnaissance report: Deputy Commissioner Vaganov was bringing a pretty young street sweeper meals and happily conversing with her.

"A _street sweeper?_ " was the general exclamation.

Yes, the informant was absolutely certain. She was holding a broom and wearing a shabby coat.

The fury of whispers rose to a fever pitch. But what could he possibly see in a poor, uneducated waif like that? Could she secretly be an intellectual, driven to poverty by the new regime but retaining some dazzling wit? But a person like that stood against the ideals of equality Vaganov so staunchly propagated.

Many of the women swooned over the great modern Russian fairytale – a down-on-her-luck street sweeper capturing the heart of one of the highest officials in the land through the virtue of hard work in a true rags-to-riches story. Still others rolled their eyes and said he was simply as shallow as any other man and had been taken in by looks and charm. But one thing everyone agreed on was that it was all utterly fascinating – especially when they received new intelligence that solved the mystery of his missing hat. The girl had it – along with what some swore was one of Vaganov's overcoats – and was wearing it throughout what seemed to be daily meetings.

A new wind was blowing indeed.

Winter was rapidly passing into spring. The trees were coming alive with green, and the sky was a stunning blue – Leningrad as a whole seemed awash in new color as the first flowers peeked through the bushes.

Gleb met Anya at the square, as was now custom for them. Today, she wasn't wearing his coat, but had it folded over her arm.

"I think it's time to give this back," she said by way of a greeting.

"Why?" Even though it was near springtime, the weather was still chilly, particularly at night.

"I can manage," she replied. There was something different in her tone that he couldn't place, but it wasn't friendly. She was also refusing to look at him.

He began running through all their encounters in the past week in his head, wondering if he'd said something about wanting his coat back without meaning to. He so often forgot himself when he was talking to her.

"If I've said anything about the coat, please ignore that comment – I don't need it back," he tried.

"It's nothing to do with that." She sounded less unfriendly, and more resigned. "I just don't think it's right for me to hold on to these." With her free hand, she pulled his hat off her head, which suddenly looked oddly small without it.

He grasped her shoulders gently, trying to get her to look at him. "Anya, what's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

She moved back, away from him, and he let go. "I've been hearing the gossip, Gleb."

"Gossip." His voice was deadly calm and measured as he waited to see where this was going.

"About us," she finally admitted.

Anger seeped into his tone. "What are they saying?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. "Please, just trust me when I say it's not good for us to be meeting like this."

It dawned on him what all the talk might be about. Despite the cold, sweat began to build in his palms and on his forehead. The coat he was wearing felt oppressive, and he had to stop himself from unbuttoning his collar as the heat rose up his neck.

"Then let them talk," he managed to choke out through the lump forming in his throat, the anger draining quickly to be replaced by the jangle of nerves.

She looked at him, confused…and almost afraid.

His blood was rushing in his ears as he made a bold decision. He reached out, took the hat in one hand, and grasped her free hand with the other. His entire arm was shaking slightly, but he willed himself to hold on. "Come with me."

He could feel his fingers twitching within his, as though she would pull away and bolt. _Please don't,_ he pleaded in his mind. _Not now._

He turned to assure himself that she was still there, and he caught the eyes watching them. He narrowed his eyes, and at his furious glare, they scampered off about their business as though nothing had happened. But Anya looked tense, and her head was bowed.

Even then, she was not letting go.

He led them towards the Neva, stopping a few feet from the bridge. Here, there were only a few smatterings of people here and there, none of whom were staring. Though they had not walked far, Gleb felt lightheaded, as though he'd run the entire length of the country.

"Why are we here?" she asked when he released her hand, trying to catch his breath.

"Anya," he began, putting some weight on the word. He suddenly found himself unable to continue as everything he'd ever wanted to say to her crowded his brain, jumbling together. He needed a minute, and found himself sinking down onto the bank.

"Gleb!" she gasped, alarmed. "Are you alright?"

"Fine…I'm fine." He gazed up at her lovely face, trying to find his courage there. "Will you sit with me?"

He reached up and gently tugged at the coat still hanging over her arm until she let it fall into his hands. He spread it out on the ground as a blanket for her.

"Your coat!" She blinked at him, incredulous.

"Please." He motioned to the space beside him.

Looking disgruntled, she finally did sit, knees folded up to her chin. "And I worked so hard to keep that clean."

"You did?"

"It's your coat," she replied, staring out across the river. "It was…important to me." Pink flooded her cheeks as hope blossomed in his chest.

Approaching voices jarred them both out of the moment. They turned to see a woman calling out, trying to catch up to a young child running in front of her. Gleb saw the longing and sadness in Anya's eyes as she watched them, fingers unconsciously picking at her sleeve.

"There was once a time I must have had that," she mused. "Home. Love. Family."

Something told him that the time was right, and he found his courage right there and then. He carefully pried her hand from her coat and held it firmly.

"Anya," he tried. "I wish to…I want to give you that."

He felt her freeze.

"If you'll let me," he continued more quietly. His eyes dropped, and he felt the most vulnerable he had been in many years. His entire destiny seemed to hang on this moment – she now had the power to break him with one answer.

"What?" she whispered, voice quivering, and he looked up. She had turned to stare him in disbelief, eyes wet and shimmering.

He could feel his own throat constricting in response. "It's not much, but I have a place you can call home," he said hoarsely. "I don't know if it will be enough, but there's a family waiting for you with – with me. If you want it."

Tears were spilling down her cheeks, which had darkened to red.

"I love you, Anya," he finished. "Will you – will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

It was as if floodgates had been opened – the smile that filled her face was dazzling, radiating pure joy. "Are you sure?" she blurted out, voice bubbling with happiness even as it cracked from her crying.

He could feel dampness on his face, and he realized that he too was weeping. "Yes. Absolutely sure. I have been certain since the first week I met you."

She tugged her hand out of his hand, and to his surprise, threw her arms around him. "Yes," she breathed, her answer tickling his ear. Her nearness was overwhelming, and he felt all the strength leave him even as he curled his arms around her back, unable to suppress a laugh of elation and relief. When they finally let go of each other, he reached out and tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, marveling at the freedom with which he could now touch her. She beamed at the motion.

A burst of orange lit up the sky – the sun was setting. He stood up, brushing off his pants, and leaned down, extending a hand to his fiancée.

 _His fiancée._ A new wave of giddiness filled him, making him grin.

She accepted his hand, taking his coat along with her as she rose to a standing position. She immediately began brushing the grass stains and mud off.

Something struck him. "Where's the hat?"

"Oh!" There it was, lying on the grass – it had probably fallen off in all the excitement. Shaking his head in amusement, he retrieved it. As he began to put it back on her head, a sense of significance filled him, and he did so with reverence. She reached up and covered his hand with hers, the look of tenderness in her eyes telling him she understood the moment too.

"You won't have to worry about the gossip anymore," he told her. "Let them see."

"Well, we've ruined the coat – the hat's going to have to do," she chided him, laughing.

 _We._ They belonged to each other now. The thought so thrilled him that he laughed again, sweeping her up into his arms and off her feet. She let out a surprised but delighted shriek, and held onto his neck. The rays of the setting sun fell on her face, illuminating it and making her a vision to behold. There was a look of expectations in her eyes, and he suddenly felt shy.

Frankly, though, this was no time to be shy. He let himself go, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips against hers, gently but firmly. He heard her breath hitch, and then she was tentatively drawing him closer.

It was so simple and so perfect. Gleb was not a religious man, but if God made anything, he decided it would be this.

He wanted to see her face, and opened his eyes to find himself staring directly into her eyes. This was the first time he'd really looked at them, and he lost himself in that striking, almost-familiar blue.

After a few more minutes, his arms began to tire. With regret, he lowered her until her two feet were on the ground again – but unwilling to break contact, he kept his mouth as close to hers as possible, bending his body forward to sustain it. When his neck couldn't bear the strain anymore, he finally pulled away, slowly, his head spinning. She looked slightly dazed.

"I love you," he croaked out, feeling the need to say it again. In response, she pulled his head down to hers for another brief kiss, and even without words, he knew she felt the same way.

The sun was going down quickly now, and they chuckled at how dark it was getting. Gleb offered his hand, and Anya took it, lacing her fingers through his. They walked back into the city, together, and the future had never looked brighter.


	5. Chapter 5

Plans immediately went ahead for a quick, simple ceremony before an official. Now that they were engaged, Gleb could barely handle the thought of having to bring her back to the bridge each night, but his responsibilities had, unfortunately, prevented him from marrying her on the spot.

The time he needed to wait was making him think too much.

Gleb had always known what his path in life required of him, and he had always complied without question. He had long been taught that his duty to his country took precedence over all – Russia would descend into chaos otherwise. It was in line with this ideal that Gleb hardened his heart from his youth and willed himself to watch with an impassive face as citizens were dragged, crying and struggling, away from their wives, husbands, and children to be punished for their crimes. Eventually, he had graduated to dragging them off himself. Then to pulling the trigger himself, hearing the screams echoing in his ears. Now he was back to watching, this time from behind the glass panes of his office.

All necessary actions. He had learned not to look at them too hard, to ignore their humanity. Traitors were worth nothing to his beloved Russia.

But loving Anya was changing things. He would sometimes wake at night in a cold sweat, his mind conjuring up images of her running into the wrong soldier and being dragged away for some perceived slight against the state. He would be standing behind the glass, helpless as the trigger was pulled and she went down.

Sometimes, the memory of the Romanovs would surface in these dreams, blue eyes flashing in accusation as they watched him from where Anya had been standing.

The night following his latest nightmare, he was silent and morose as he and Anya shared their evening meal. He was unable to look at her, afraid the haunted look in his eyes would betray his apprehension. He instead stared into the distance as he ate, noticing little else, until he heard the loud crinkle of paper and turned to see her crumpling the wrap of her dinner with force, her expression upset.

"Anya?"

"Do you regret asking me to marry you?" she asked, visibly trying to keep her voice steady.

"Anya, I –"

"If you take it back –" She broke off, tearing at the paper in her hands. "I knew that you didn't think it through, that you were going to be marrying someone like me –"

"Anya –"

"I don't have anything, not even my identity, my own self – what could you possibly even want with me –" Her voice rose and churned with emotion.

Stomach twisting, Gleb set his unfinished meal aside and pulled her into his arms, gripping her tightly. " _Anya,_ " he murmured into her hair. "I'm taking nothing back. I meant everything I said before, and I mean it now."

Her fingers curled around the lapels of his coat, holding on as though he were a lifeline, and she leaned her forehead against his chest. "You've barely looked me in the eye since you asked," she mumbled. "If you're only going through with this because you feel obligated to, then you – you shouldn't have to."

He swallowed hard. Fate was playing a cruel trick on him. If he did not tell her what was really on his mind, then she would never have to know for sure the reality of the person her fiancé was, not for a long time. But that meant allowing her to walk away tonight doubting if he really did love her. Yet if he told her the truth about the blood on his hands, she could run screaming from him, signing the death warrant on his newfound happiness.

 _Happiness is not what matters now._ The voice of Gleb's superior rang in his ears. _No choice but simple duty._

Did he want her to join her life to that to an officer of the Bolshevik government without understanding what that meant?

"Anya." His mouth was dry. "I had a man killed today."

She stiffened.

"He was rebelling against Russia," he continued, the words like knives in his throat. "Speaking out against the regime. My men took him off the streets. I examined him….found him guilty. We made an example of him…he was shot before the sun set."

She pulled back with a flinch, but her face was unreadable.

"I told you before – the legitimacy of the government will be challenged by no one. While we walk the street, be very careful what you say. The walls have ears. This is the work of the revolution. My work for the revolution."

He could see the fright now in her eyes. "Gleb –" she whispered.

"You must know." Now that he had begun, he felt the need to see it through to the end in a fit of strange freedom. "This is all I have known from my youth. Since I heard the Tsar and his family die at my father's hand. Like a good son, I have followed in his footsteps, and I have done as he did. I do what what's necessary for Russia, Anya. It has, and still means –"

"Would you ever make an example of me?" she interrupted quietly.

"Anya, you would never –"

" _Would you?_ " she challenged, fire blazing once more in her eyes.

His nightmares flashed before his eyes. "Anya…the very fear keeps me awake at night."

She closed her eyes and bit her lip. "Let me be."

It was as though he was that paper in her hands, crumpling from the inside. It took all his composure to rise stiffly from the bench where they sat, ears ringing.

He had walked only a few steps when she called out. "Gleb."

He tried to control himself, to give her time. But it seemed it took only seconds before he was back at her side. He began to open his mouth, to offer reassurances, when he realized that she was whispering to herself.

" _Heart, don't fail me now – courage, don't desert me. Don't turn back now that we're here…"_

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "People always say life is full of choices. No one ever mentions fear as one of them."

He chuckled humorlessly. "I've learned...A man must make painful choices, Anya."

She took one of his hands in both her small ones. Without breaking eye contact, she pressed her lips to his hand. "And I've made mine."

Gleb could have wept with relief as she smiled tentatively at him. He covered their linked hands with his free one.

"As surely as I have blood on my hands, I have chosen you," he said solemnly. "I don't care that you don't know who you are – I know who you are. That's all I want, and I will look no further."

He kissed her as fervently as he dared in public, hoping it would convey the honesty of his heart. "I love you," he whispered against her mouth. "And I will marry you."

"Bring me home," she whispered back.

Commissioner Gorlinsky did not listen to rumors much when it concerned his own people. As a head general of the Bolsheviks, he felt that there was better gossip to listen for – like all this business about the princess Anastasia.

As a result, he was caught off guard by the phone call he received from his oddly-happy deputy. After making a terrible joke about Russian telephones that Gorlinsky found utterly unamusing, Vaganov finally got to the point – he was requesting a leave of absence so that he could get married.

The young man was a hard worker and extremely loyal to his father's cause, so Gorlinsky granted it. He could not afford to have a distracted officer running Leningrad at any rate, and it filled him with relief to see that Vaganov had found someone else to take his attempts at humor to. On the day of the marriage ceremony, Gorlinsky was passing by the registry office and decided to drop in to congratulate his subordinate.

It was one of the worst decisions he made in his position as commissioner.

Vaganov's new bride was a kind, beautiful girl who greeted Gorlinsky's arrival with warmth. She was visibly overjoyed as she finished signing the papers that would finalize her marriage – his deputy had done well to choose a woman who would clearly be devoted to him. Vaganov's own face glowed with love, and his voice bubbled with pride as he made the formal introductions.

Gorlinsky extended his hand to young Anya, bowing in respect. As he straightened and looked her in the eye, he staggered backwards violently.

It could not be. The rumors were getting to him…

"Are you alright?" both of them were asking, voices strained with concern. Gorlinsky was vaguely aware of scuttling around him and of a chair being placed underneath him. But all he could see were those startling blue eyes.

The Romanov eyes.

On instinct, his hand strayed towards his pocket, only for him to remember that he had not brought a pistol. And he also could not shoot Vaganov's wife without explanation. No – his deputy would have to see it for himself.

Gorlinsky's hand relaxed. They could afford to wait and see, for a comrade's sake. There was no other definitive proof, and she was hardly claiming the identity, after all. And if she was indeed the last Romanov…then she was already in Bolshevik hands.

He managed to compose himself enough to take his leave of the couple, citing a need for fresh air. As he headed for the door, rejecting the offers for assistance, he turned to take one more long look at the girl.

She held herself with a posture that was almost regal – far too sophisticated for someone with the social standing of a common Russian. Now he wondered why he had not seen it from the start. How Vaganov had not in all this time.

Gorlinsky's brow furrowed as he watched the couple. If his deputy did in fact know who his wife was…Gorlinsky would need to know.

Immediately after the new groom returned from his wedding week, Gorlinsky called him to his office.

"How is your wife?" he asked after pleasantries were exchanged and the tea had been poured.

Vaganov actually blushed. "She's settling in very well, sir."

"I hear she has had a rather…buoyant effect on your disposition, if your office is to be believed," Gorlinsky continued smoothly.

Vaganov looked embarrassed. "Sir, I apologize –"

"There's no need to be shy about being happy." Gorlinsky waved it off, eager to get to his point. "Anya is a lovely girl – a shame we did not get to speak more. How is it that you met her?"

Gorlinsky listened intently as his subordinate told the story of the girl he met sweeping pavements, who had no family or identity. So it seemed that Vaganov was oblivious of the resemblance she bore to royalty.

If Gorlinsky was right, then what a fall from grace it was for Anastasia Romanov. From Grand Duchess to street sweeper, now married into the family that had killed hers. It was almost a victory all on its own, but the past had to be more than just forgotten.

It needed to be buried.

"She has lived a hard life, has she not?" He chose his next words carefully. "What a poor lost…princess. You'll have to take very good care of her, won't you?"

"Yes, of course, sir," Vaganov nodded. "To the best of my ability."

"I trust that you know your duty." Gorlinsky allowed the edge to slip into his voice. "The rumors of Anastasia Romanov's survival are getting out of hand. End them. For good."

He rose from his chair, and Vaganov leapt to his feet, his soft expression hardening into the countenance of the general that he was.

"Do not let your heart lead you astray from what needs to be done," Gorlinsky finished. "Remember, comrade – love is not what revolution's for."


	6. Chapter 6

Gleb let the door to his own office slam shut behind him. He leaned against the wall, heart pounding.

Commissioner Gorlinsky was right. He had neglected his duty for far too long, allowing his pursuit of Anya to consume all his thoughts. The hope that Anastasia represented had been allowed to persist, and Gleb feared the kind of damage it had already done to Russia in the months he had lacked focus.

He needed to make up for lost time, to justify the confidence the commissioner had placed in him. Gritting his teeth, he opened his door.

"What's the update on the conmen while I was gone?" he barked to his men.

They straightened at the clipped tone of his voice. "They haven't left Leningrad yet," one of his spies responded quickly. "Their false Anastasia seems to be eluding them."

"They've been returning to Yusupov Palace every so often," another offered. "But they never linger."

The audacity rankled with Gleb. "Redouble the surveillance on the palace," he snapped. "Keep an eye on every abandoned building in the city. These… _traitors_ will not last another week on my watch."

Now that he could come home to Anya each night in the safety of their home, there was no more need to take time out of his day just to see her. Gleb quickly filled the hours, throwing himself back into his role with ferocity. He obtained reports from the growing pool of spies and made sure the secretaries filled pages efficiently under his critical eye. The streets were not spared his renewed zeal as he resumed his patrols that week. Fearful for their lives, the crowds promptly learned to part and to check their tongues at any glimpse of him.

This was what Gleb was born to do. The power he was called to wield as the sword and shield of the revolution.

Whenever he spoke about it at home, though, Anya would only smile tightly, strain and discomfort visible on her face. After their wedding, she had left her sweeping job, and he had offered to find her position in his office. But she had refused, choosing instead to work at a hospital in the city. Perhaps it was the opposing values of their professions that was causing this new friction between them – Anya was employed in a place that aimed to save lives, while Gleb was in the business of ending them.

To add to his concerns about their relationship, she had also begun suffering nightmares that week. As a soldier, Gleb had been trained to sleep lightly, so the first night, he had immediately woken when she began to twist and turn in their bed.

"I don't know who I am," she had said to the air, eyes still clenched shut, distress on her face. Then she had shot up with a cry that was wild with terror.

He had quickly wrapped his arms around her, trying to get her to look at him, to bring her back to the conscious world. "Anya – Anya, you're awake now. It's safe."

"The voices keep coming back," she had told him, voice shaking. "Stay with me, Gleb – I'm frightened."

"I will," he had assured her. "I won't leave."

"Who do you think I am?" she had asked desperately, before dissolving into tears in his arms. Unable to give her the answer he knew she wanted, he simply held her until finally, she had dozed off again into a fitful sleep.

The scene had repeated nearly every night since. As she slept, he would wonder what plagued her, but he felt too afraid to broach the subject during the waking hours lest the nightmares intensify.

The lack of sleep and worry were aggravating Gleb's already poor temper. It was, unfortunately, in this mood that the spies found him at the end of the week.

"Dmitry and Popov have returned to the palace," they reported.

Gleb wasted no time, tucking his pistol into his pocket and rising immediately from his chair.

"They will not escape again," he vowed. "I will make sure of that."

He called the soldiers together. "We shouldn't spook the prey. Divide yourselves and cover all the exits."

They slipped out of the office in twos and threes, seemingly going on a normal patrol. Gleb chose to march down the street alone. When he reached the palace door by himself, as planned, he hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, remembering what had happened the last time he had been here. He entered stealthily, careful to lock the door behind him this time.

He could clearly hear two male voices echoing off the walls. The brat he had been tailing for all these months – Dmitry, they called him. And his friend, the false Count Vladimir Popov. Gleb made his way down the now-familiar path to the theatre door and pushed it open slowly.

"Well, you tried, my friend," Popov – the older, bearded man in a cheap suit – was saying, sounding tired. "Anastasias don't grow on trees. Not even pretend ones."

"I'm not giving up," Dmitry retorted. He was seated on a chair, fidgeting with something in his hands. "I'll go to Siberia to find an Anastasia."

"Have you ever been to Siberia?"

"I've never been anywhere."

Popov sighed. "The day I took up with you – "

"It was me or the firing squad," Dmitry reminded him.

Popov glanced at whatever was in Dmitry's hands. "Stop fiddling with that before you break it!"

"I can't get it open!"

"It's a fake! No one spots a fake like Count Vladimir Popov!" Popov exclaimed. Then he stopped short, color draining from his face, as Gleb, deciding he had heard enough, stepped into view.

"Vlad, what the –" Dmitry broke off as Popov pointed wordlessly at Gleb. The younger man turned and leapt up at the sight of Gleb's glower, his chair clattering to the floor.

"Our little troublemakers have been found," Gleb sneered.

Dmitry's fingers were curling around the frame of the nearest upright chair, preparing to lift it.

"I would watch your back if I were you," Gleb continued smoothly as the rest of the soldiers burst in from their various entry points, guns out. Popov's hands shot into the air.

"At least they'll feed us in jail," he mumbled as Dmitry released the chair. The younger man's eyes darted around, as though still trying to find a way out. But Gleb had made sure there wouldn't be one.

"Trying to pass off one of our hardworking citizens as Anastasia herself, I hear?" He tsked, steel in his voice, as the conmen were driven to their knees. "You've been charged, comrades, with counter-revolutionary acts against Russia. For conspiring to restore the monarchy with these…lies about a surviving Romanov."

The pair remained silent. Popov's head was bowed and Dmitry's glare was both afraid and defiant.

"What a place you've chosen for your little 'auditions'," Gleb commented as he walked across the room. "Yusupov's own theatre. A symbol of fallen glory."

"We surrender!" Popov squeaked.

"Of course you do," Gleb replied. "You have no choice." He strode back to the men and crouched down in front of Dmitry, wanting to look the young charlatan in the eye. "I let you slip past me once," Gleb hissed. "Not this time."

He turned to his men. "Take them away. Make sure you take a scenic route."

As the soldiers hauled the struggling pair onto their feet, Gleb noticed something at his feet. The object Dmitry had been toying with earlier. It was a round, intricately carved metal box of some kind, green and gold, heavy in his hands. There was a letter "A" inscribed on it.

Anastasia. So this was what they had been planning to use to convince the Empress of their little charade.

Gleb tried to pry the lid open, but it would not budge. Probably broken indeed, as Popov had said. If he took it back to the government, they would throw it in with the garbage.

Yet he couldn't take his eyes off it. He had never given Anya a ring, or any kind of jewelry. Perhaps…

It was a snug fit, but he managed to cram the large trinket into his pocket. Then he followed the soldiers out, flicking the lights off and plunging the room into blackness.

* * *

The blood-orange sunset reflected off the glass windows as Gleb completed his report on the arrest. They had gone through Dmitry and Popov's things and unearthed a notebook full of information on the royal family and its connections. It was all meticulously done – it seemed that Popov really had been an invaluable well of knowledge about the aristocrats. Had they quickly and successfully escaped to Paris with a suitable fake, they might have made an excellent case.

Stowing the notebook in a drawer of his desk, Gleb pulled the box out of his pocket and attempted to open it again. He finally gave up before he accidentally broke it further. As the sky grew dim, he gathered up his coat, eager to present the gift to Anya and hopefully make her happier tonight.

"Well done today, sir," one of his soldiers called out, bowing. Gleb nodded in acknowledgment and made his way out into the spring evening.

Anya greeted him with a cheerful smile as he walked through the door of their flat. She seemed in good spirits, to his relief. She told him about a good day at the hospital over their evening meal, and it felt like they were back on the street in the middle of their courtship (yes, he could now safely say that that had been what it was), enjoying their stew and bread.

As the dishes were being put away, he fingered the box nervously, feeling rather like he was preparing to propose again.

"Anya," he called softly as she closed a cabinet. "I have something for you."

"Are you going to give me a glove this time?" she joked as she came to sit by him.

He pulled out the box, and she gasped. "It's beautiful!"

"I found it when we raided Yusupov Palace today," he explained, deciding for her sake to leave out the part where he had dealt with the conmen. "I hoped you might like it."

"Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, keeping a trinket of the royals?" she teased him as she plucked it out of his hands. "You might have to arrest yourself."

He grinned sheepishly. "It would have been a waste – they would have just thrown it away." He showed her the initial on the box. "And it seemed meant for you."

She beamed up at him. "Thank you, Gleb."

"I haven't given you much," he confessed. "I'm told that's probably broken too. But it…looks nice."

"What is it?" she asked, turning the box over in her hands curiously.

"I don't know – a box of some kind. I haven't been able to open it."

She fiddled with the bottom end of the box, discovering a winding mechanism there. One twist…two twists… She gently pulled the lid of the box open, revealing a pair of dancer figurines spinning on top of a platform. A tinkling melody issued forth, and an odd, entranced expression came over her face.

" _Dancing bears…painted wings. Things I almost remember. And a song someone sings once upon a December,_ " she sang softly.

She rose from her chair, looking intently at the figures in the music box. Gleb stared at her, shocked. She looked as though she was in a different world.

" _Someone holds me safe and warm… Horses prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully across my memory…_ "

Gleb's blood was rushing in his veins as he watched her gaze around at something he couldn't see. He felt lost, unable to comprehend what was happening. Something nagged at him – something important.

" _Far away, long ago. Glowing dim as an ember…things my heart used to know. Things it yearns to remember…_ "

Gleb's hands trembled. Could she be… But it wasn't possible. He had heard the gunshots himself. He had seen Anastasia herself, walking to her execution as a girl.

" _And a song someone sings…once upon a December._ " Anya's shoulders slumped as she shut the lid, her eyes closed. Her brow furrowed, as though she was trying hard to recall something.

"Anya?" he whispered, reaching out to touch her.

She stepped back, still looking overwhelmed, and he could see the tears pooling under her eyelashes. "I'm sorry, Gleb. I need a minute."

She turned and hurried into their bedroom, leaving him staring after her. There was only a wall and a doorway between them, but she suddenly felt a hundred miles away.

He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. It had been a mistake, an absolute mistake, bringing that music box back. Cursed aristocrats and their cursed possessions. He had only succeeded in upsetting Anya more.

And put strange ideas in his own head. Of course Anya wasn't Anastasia. It was simply a funny coincidence that she knew the melody the box had played – perhaps it was a common song. She could have heard it anywhere.

She was Anya, his Anya. And nothing would change that.

* * *

Author's Note:

To all my reviewers, thank you so much for all your kind words and encouragement! I'm so glad you're enjoying this work (terribly sorry I haven't been too interactive over here), and I love and appreciate every single one of your comments! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Gleb sat in the chair for another hour, watching the minutes tick away in the clock on the mantle. He was itching to go to her, to apologize for…something. But he had promised her he would not invade her personal space, not without her permission…

He got up, unable to sit still any longer. As he began to pace, his steps pulled him closer and closer to their room, but he kept his gaze in front of him, not wanting her to catch him peeking.

He couldn't resist for long, though, and one brief glance showed him that she was huddled on her side of the bed. Gleb clenched his fists to keep from acting on his urge to comfort her.

Yet she had always had a knack for sensing him. "You can come in," she said. Her voice was more even now, but she still didn't face him. "It's late. You should rest."

"I'm sorry," he blurted out from the doorway.

She sat up and finally looked up at him, her eyes still damp and red. "It was a lovely thought, Gleb. It just…wasn't what I expected."

"I thought it was broken," he rambled. "I didn't know –"

"I know." She folded her hands in her lap, staring down at them. Slowly, he approached and sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her hunched shoulders. She leaned into his chest, and he left her to her thoughts, content to not speak, to not ask questions as long as she let him stay there.

But as he feared, her nightmares worsened that night, and she was more agitated than she had been all week.

"Why must you go?" she cried out, almost weeping. "Take me with you. Take me with you now."

As he cradled her and whispered reassurances, he wondered if she was recalling the day she had been abandoned all those years ago. What if the music box's tune had been a reminder of who had left her?

He found no sleep all night, leaving him exhausted the next morning. He opted to remain in his office all day, relieved for the first time in a long time that it was a quiet day with very few reports coming in. It seemed that the very public capture of Dmitry and Popov had stunned the people, made them far more cautious.

For his role in that success, none of his comrades had begrudged him his lack of productivity. As the afternoon fell, he pulled out the notebook he had recovered from Popov and began leafing through it.

Nestled in between the pages was an envelope containing a half-written letter addressed to a Countess Lily Malevsky-Malevitch in Paris. It seemed that she was the former Dowager Empress's lady-in-waiting, and all communication with the old woman passed through her. Had Popov made it to France, she, apparently his one-time lover, would have been his contact.

Not that it mattered now. They would never meet.

He closed the notebook and waited for the evening to fall. As soon as it did, Gleb hurried out the doors of the headquarters, anxious to see if Anya was better. When he entered their flat, it was dim and quiet.

He found her in their room, the music box in her hands, and he hesitated in the doorway.

She shifted, turned, and saw him. She was no longer crying, but there was a deep sadness in her eyes that was far worse. Putting the box down on the table beside the bed, she beckoned him over.

"It makes me think of Paris," she confessed. Gleb tried not to twitch as he curled his arm around her waist.

"I wonder sometimes if I gave up too soon," she continued softly, gazing at the box with longing.

"Gave up?"

"When I married you." Anya started suddenly, as though she had let something unintentional slip.

Gleb's chest tightened. "Do you regret this?"

"That's not what I meant to say." Her focus was back on him now, her face creased with worry in addition to the sadness. "Don't misunderstand – I wanted it. I wanted you. Too much."

He let go of her. "I don't understand," he said flatly.

She inhaled sharply and bit her lip as though to steady herself. "Do you remember what we talked about after you proposed? When you told me who you were…are?"

He nodded stiffly.

"I was so afraid of you that night," she admitted. "I was afraid of everything you did. What you do."

He flinched involuntarily. He should have known it would come back to haunt him…that her acceptance had been too good to be true.

"But I couldn't watch you walk away." She reached for his hand, pleading. "You were honest with me – you told me the truth of what it meant to be your wife, and that mattered so much. I couldn't take the chance that you might not come back, so I accepted it. And I try so hard to reconcile myself to it every day, Gleb. It hasn't been easy, but I try because I love you."

He swallowed, caught between relief at the assurance of her love and fear – the fear that she was about to tell him that she could no longer try handling who he was. That she would rather try her fortunes in France.

"Can I trust you to let me be honest with you?" she asked in a small voice.

He took a deep breath and nodded slowly, preparing himself for the blow. To his surprise, Anya stood up and went to her drawer instead, rummaging. He felt his breath catching in his throat.

She returned with something small clenched in one fist. "Hold out your hand," she instructed him. He did as she asked.

A diamond tumbled into his open palm, and his jaw dropped open.

"The nurse at the hospital found it sewn into my underclothes when they found me," Anya explained, hands twisting in her dress. "She hid it from me, until the day I could go. A secret she kept – although I didn't know why. She told me not to tell a soul until I must…I had to make sure I found someone I trust."

Gleb's heart began to pound hard. Diamonds sewn into undergarments…he'd heard of it. And he knew of only one group of people who did such a thing.

"It was all I had. I didn't know how much exit papers cost, and so I always thought I'd use that to buy passage to Paris if I failed to get enough money working. That day you saw me at Yusupov Palace, I was planning to find out." She gave him a shaky smile. "Then you were there, and I felt like I didn't need to know anymore."

He didn't know if this was how his honesty had made her feel those weeks ago, but hers was ripping him apart with revelations both beautiful and terrible. If only it could have stopped at her saying she had chosen him over Paris, that she trusted him with everything… He could have lived forever on that knowledge, but the proof of her trust made him feel more like dying.

Because it meant that Anya, his Anya, was a lost royal. The evidence lay in his own hand.

She might not know who she was, but it would not save her from a firing squad. The orders on dealing with surviving aristocrats were very clear. His nightmare of her being dragged away and shot flashed in his mind, and he convulsed slightly.

"You gave me everything I had ever wanted," she continued, oblivious to his turmoil as he struggled to hide his emotions. "And I thought I could be happy with that. But there's so much my heart still needs to know about my past."

His tongue felt like lead in his mouth as he tried to form words. "I don't know if I can give you that."

He didn't even know if he could give her her life.

She was silent for a few minutes, then she sat down beside him and firmly closed his hand over the jewel. "That's why I'm giving this to you. I have found someone I trust. If I never find my past, then the day may come when we need it for our future. I see no better use for it."

"Anya –" He prayed she would take it back, that she would hide it again so he could pretend he had never seen it –

"I don't want to hold on to it and have it tempt me," she said simply.

She had just given him, in trust and love, what he needed to seal her fate. Wordlessly, he set the diamond down beside the music box and pulled her into his arms.

Perhaps there was still a way he could keep Anya without betraying Russia. She might have been royalty, but that was in a previous life, and there were no traces of that in the person she was now, except for what he knew. And Russia didn't have to know what he knew – Anya was exactly the kind of citizen she hoped to cultivate after all. Maybe it didn't have to be one or the other.

Yes. He would feign ignorance, for all their sakes.

He gazed into Anya's eyes to find the resolve he needed to carry out his decision – and froze.

The eyes of the Romanovs were staring back at him.

Gleb blinked, trying to clear his vision. No – he was thinking too much of the new revelation, and now seeing things that weren't there. None of the Romanovs had survived – that was the reality. And he had seen Anya every day for months – he would have noticed those eyes –

The image of the Romanovs from his dreams slammed into his head, their eyes flashing again in accusation. The memory of the young Anastasia resurfaced – her stance proud as she walked past the gate even though her blue eyes were confused.

The same eyes.

When he proposed to her, Anya's eyes had looked so familiar… If he had not been caught up in his emotions that day, he might have seen it then.

"Gleb?" Anya's voice sounded like it was coming from far away. The air suddenly seemed too thin from where he sat, and he found himself drawing breath in great wheezing gulps as the room spun and his ears rang. He was vaguely aware of his body being shifted until the back of his head was resting against the headboard. Dimly, he noted that she was really quite strong.

"Don't try to move." She hurried out of the room, and after a few moments, his surroundings began to take shape again now that those eyes were no longer in sight. His head began to clear, and to try and piece it all together.

Anya was royalty. Not just any royal, but possibly the very girl whose memory he was tasked with quashing for Russia's sake.

Yet he couldn't make it make sense. How had she escaped the scene that haunted him to this day? The soldiers had made sure… Gleb's own father had made sure… Gleb had seen, and he had heard, and he had suffered the silence…

Anya returned, bearing a cup that smelled strongly of lemon. She held it to his lips, and he tasted hot tea with lemon. The very first drink they had had together, and now it was bitter to the taste. If he had never asked her to tea that day, he might never have seen her again – might never have found anything out... Might have found it easier to do what he must.

"You look better," she said, relief suffusing her voice as he drained the cup. "I told you too much – I'm sorry."

"When did they find you, all those years ago?" he croaked out. He needed to know that her discovery as Anya did not coincide with the death of the Romanovs – it was his only hope that he might be wrong after all –

She looked confused. "Gleb, what does that have to with anything –"

"Please," he begged.

She frowned, her brow furrowing. "It was ten years ago. I think it was sometime around the start of the revolution."

His heart sank as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. There was no way of knowing how she had been missed in the massacre that night, who left her on the roadside, or the circumstances that had led her to forget everything. But all he'd seen and heard tonight pointed to one thing.

Anya was Anastasia. Duty dictated what he now had to do – Anastasia could not be allowed to survive.

But Anya…

She had placed her hands on his temples, massaging them. "I'm sorry," she murmured again. She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them gently to his forehead.

 _Anya…_

Gleb reached out and trailed a finger from her hairline down to her jaw, willing himself to look her in the eye as a mix of defiance and despair filled him. If he, as Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, had to do his duty where Anastasia was concerned…then Anya deserved to get as much of Gleb her husband as she could tonight.

Russia could spare him this much. For a few more hours, happiness _would_ matter.


	8. Chapter 8

He watched her sleep, untroubled for once. Then slowly, taking care not to rouse her, he got out of bed and went to his own drawer.

As he slid it open, the moonlight streaming through the window glinted off a small silver pistol. He always kept a spare in their room, just in case. But he had never imagined that it was Anya herself he had needed to be prepared for.

He took the weapon in his hands. Despite its size, it was heavy, a weight that threatened to drag his arms down.

He checked if it was loaded, although he knew it was. It always was.

He took his position on the side of the room where her back was facing. It would be easier, if he didn't see her face.

He raised the gun, cocked it, and pointed it between her shoulder blades.

Only hours ago, she was standing in the same position, as a wife affirming her love for her husband. Now he was a soldier, looking at her as a target.

The heads of the Bolsheviks had always warned their men to be hardened, to never grow too attached to people they might soon find themselves betraying. But for one brief moment, Gleb had allowed himself to dream. It was a simple enough dream, he'd thought. Marry the woman he saw himself spending his life with. Build a home. Bring up a family. But the dream had quickly grown complicated.

From his childhood, he had always been taught that the Romanov family was the parasite of Russia – sucking her life and that of her people away to feed itself. They had been given everything, but gave back nothing – all the people had worked for went to their lavish balls, the Tsar's little hobbies, the whims of his children. His father had worked to end that system once and for all, willingly staining his hands with their blood as Russia rose up to destroy them.

Except one had escaped. And Gleb's time was now at hand.

All he had to do was pull the trigger, and he would end the Romanovs once and for all, end the legend that was Anastasia. He would be able to perform the task he had long admired his father for carrying out - he had often wondered if he would be able to fire the gun on the royal family if he had been commanded to do so, and he now had an opportunity to fulfill his perverse wish.

He had orders. He just had to obey them. A revolution was a simple thing. Russia needed to move on as a nation – the times must change. The world must change. And Anastasia's survival prevented that.

Yet his finger refused to move.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd pointed a gun at her… Except she had had the chance to fight back that time, to defend herself, to try and live, as futile as her attempt would have been if he'd shot on instinct that day at Yusupov Palace. Tonight, he would be denying her that chance.

Anastasia. Anya. Why did they have to be one and the same? Anastasia Romanov was the life he had to end, but Anya was the life he had always wanted to protect from the moment he encountered her. The day he met her, he had believed it was fate.

But had fate brought him here for Russia's sake, or for Anya's?

The eerie silence in the room resonated with familiarity, and his ears began to ring. He could see the Romanov children in his mind's eye, and he stumbled backwards, leaning against the nearest wall. The hand holding the gun fell to his side.

Their voices sounded in the night, weaving with whispers of Anya's. He was suddenly a boy again, watching his father leave the house with his pistol in tow. Watching Anastasia and her siblings marched into Ipatiev House. Watching the soldiers close the gate behind them. Hearing the sounds that faded into nothing.

Gleb's father sank into despair after that night, something Gleb had never quite comprehended. But his mother had. When his father finally died, she said it was of shame.

As Gleb's mind returned to the present, his eyes fell on his uniform, lying in the corner. It seemed to personify Russia herself.

 _You have given your life to me,_ she crooned. _Your father did a proud and vital task for me. Finish the job for him, like a good son. For me, your beauty._

 _Would you make an example of me?_ Anya's words echoed in response. _Would you?_

She had committed no crime. Neither had Anastasia…except to be born and to live. Did she truly deserve to die? Would Gleb now bear his father's burden, completing the cycle?

He staggered to the edge of the bed, sinking down and turning his back on the uniform. He trained his eyes on her instead, his vision beginning to blur with tears as he made the choice he had never thought he had.

 _I'm sorry, Father. I can't be your son. Not here._

He could feel his heart split in two – one half bearing and shriveling under the weight of Russia's resentment and all the expectations of his father's name.

 _Just this,_ he pleaded, almost in prayer. _I will make sure her legend dies. But let me have her._

The other half of his heart pulsed and beat with new life, and the conflict was too much. A choked sob burst from his throat, loud in the quiet room.

"Gleb?" Anya mumbled sleepily as she stirred. He clapped his free hand to his mouth to try and stifle the sound, but his body heaved all the more, causing the bed to shake.

The mattress shifted as she made her way to him, and he heard her gasp. "Gleb!"

He was still holding the pistol in his lap, and he could feel her trembling behind him as she pried it from his hand.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, horrified. He couldn't answer, except in the hitched, moaning noises he couldn't recall ever making in his life.

There was a clink of metal as the gun was placed on the table. Then her arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, holding tight, her cheek pressing against his. He heard a sniffle, and her tears were soon mingling with his.

"What's wrong?" she asked desperately, her voice thick. He simply leaned against her, needing support. Even though she was much smaller than he, she was a pillar of strength as she let him cry without another word.

Finally, the exhaustion set in, and his sobs began to lighten. He felt his eyes close, and he welcomed the accompanying blackness.

When he awoke, he was lying properly on the bed, his head resting on a pillow. Sunlight was streaming through the window, and the flat was quiet, meaning Anya had left for the day.

The scent of lemon reached his nose, and his eyes focused on a glass of hot tea with lemon that had been placed on the table…next to the gun. Which was right beside the diamond and the music box.

Gleb leapt out of bed, seized with the horror of the previous night. His heart thundered as he grabbed the gun and the diamond, throwing them into his drawer. He shut the door with force, as though it would make the items vanish.

No one would ever need to know.

He picked up his uniform, which had been laid out neatly on a chair. For the first time, he was afraid to leave the house, afraid to arrive at headquarters and see their piercing, prying eyes. He felt exposed, as though his mind was on display for the world to see.

He was easily one of the best spies in the country, but he had never kept a secret like this. It seemed that he was now being given the opportunity to see just how good he truly was.

Or Anya would die. And he along with her for trying to hide the truth.

There was a particularly potent chill in the spring air as Gleb left the flat, taking care to lock the door well. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he hurried along the streets.

He jerked to a stop when he heard the word 'Anastasia.'

"— it's over?" a woman was saying in a hushed whisper.

"Yes," a deep male voice responded. "The Dowager Empress has given Anastasia up for dead. She has withdrawn the search."

There was a heavy exhale. "I guess we all have to accept the reality. No one escaped. The Romanovs are gone for good."

"It was a beautiful dream," came the wistful reply. "But we must all awake sometime."

It felt like a mountain was lifted off Gleb's shoulders. If the Dowager Empress was giving up, then that meant that no one would be on the lookout for Anastasia – real or fake. And if the people were following her lead, then the memory of Anastasia was no longer a threat. She would just be that – a memory. A myth.

And Anya would be safe in Russia for the remainder of her days. He would simply spend the rest of his life paying penance to his country for his choices.

The news buoyed Gleb's spirits, giving him a burst of energy that carried him to the doors of the government offices. When he entered, however, he could feel the workers' gazes fall on him. He squirmed in discomfort.

He was past an hour late. He had never been late a day, not even when he was sick.

One of the secretaries hurried up to him. "Commissioner Gorlinsky is waiting for your call, sir," she reported urgently. "We thought you might not come – your wife said you were ill –"

Gleb felt his stomach knot. "Yes. Thank you. I'm better now."

She shot him a concerned look before returning to her post. Gleb squared his shoulders, went into his office, and shut the door. He breathed deeply, then picked up the telephone to dial the commissioner.

"You're late," his superior barked.

"Yes sir. My apologies, sir. It won't happen again, sir," Gleb stammered.

"Trouble at home?"

Gleb hesitated for a fraction of a second. "No, sir. None at all."

"I'd hate to think that any domestic situation is keeping you from doing your duty," the commissioner commented.

Gleb straightened a bit more, even though the head general couldn't see. "The conmen fueling all the talk of reviving Anastasia have been dealt with," he said. "The people have been put back in line."

"Yes, quite a coup at Yusupov Palace… But what of Anastasia herself?"

Gleb steeled himself. "It is over. The word on the street is that the Dowager Empress has officially declared Anastasia dead. It shouldn't take us long to verify the report. And with her surrender to the truth, the people see no more reason to believe the princess lives."

There was silence on the other end.

"The Dowager Empress has given up, you say?" came the quiet response.

"Yes." Gleb held his breath.

"But we have not!" the commissioner thundered. "It may be over for the old woman, but it is not over for Russia, do you understand?"

Gleb flinched, Commissioner Gorlinsky's words hitting him like a slap in the face. "Yes, sir," he managed.

"We have the past to bury, deputy commissioner." The commissioner's voice dropped. "Your position, your office – they do not come at no charge. Whether Anastasia lives or dies, it's up to you." With that, the call ended with a click.

Gleb lowered the receiver to the cradle, his hands shaking slightly. Anya remained in danger. For how long could he delay and play pretend? Commissioner Gorlinsky had put him at the head of the manhunt, and if he did nothing, then someone else would quickly be put in charge. Someone who would see her and not hesitate. Someone who would know that Gleb had betrayed Russia and that he had been in on the secret all along.

He pulled Popov's notebook out of his drawer and withdrew the envelope addressed to the lady-in-waiting.

Paris. Anya might be safe there. Her past was there, he was now certain. Her family had been there all this time. If they could still be convinced…if they would take her in…

She would need to know what he knew. He hoped the identity would resonate quickly with her, that it would fall into place as easily for her as it had for him. Then he could hide her in Paris as soon as possible, come back, and merely go on a wild goose chase throughout Russia until the government stopped looking for her. He and Anya would be separated for a time, but she would be alive and well…

The thought of separation felt like a vise around his ribs.

Instead of returning the notebook to his desk drawer, he hid it under his hat so that he could bring it home without rousing suspicion later. If Anya needed help remembering, perhaps Popov's notes would help.

The tinkling song of the music box was playing from where it sat on the dining table when Gleb arrived at their flat that night. The spinning figurines were now familiar to him – the Tsar and his wife.

Her parents.

"You look terrible," Anya said quietly as she came out of the kitchen, face flushed from the exertion of cooking. She herself looked tired, the bags under her eyes dark and heavy.

Gleb crossed the room to hold her, relieved to feel her alive in his arms. If only she didn't have to leave him soon.

"Anya?" he mumbled into her hair.

She made a noise of acknowledgment as she pressed her face against his chest.

"Let's go to Paris."


	9. Chapter 9

"Paris?" Even as hope crept into her voice, she pulled back and scrutinized him. "Why?"

He fumbled, unsure how to word his answer. Finally, he said, "I'm taking you home."

"My home is here," she pointed out, a puzzled smile on her face.

He swallowed. "It's not."

The smile vanished. "What do you mean it's not?"

He led her to a chair, deciding they might both need to be seated. Her hand was stiff and tense beneath his, and when she sat, it was on the very edge of the chair.

"You know that I've spent the past few months dealing with the rumors of Anastasia Romanov," he began. She nodded slowly.

As its song came to an end, he picked up the music box. "I've found her."

"But you said they all died," she reminded him. "You heard it happen."

"I did," he confirmed. "I saw the children enter the house…I heard the shots. I heard the screams. I thought it was over with the silence..." She flinched as he went on.

"I don't know how, but Anastasia survived that," he finished.

She had closed her eyes. "There was a fire…people were screaming…" she whispered. Then she opened them again quickly and shook her head. "I'm sorry. That brought the dreams back. So where did you find her?"

He met those blue eyes. "Here. She's sitting right in front of me."

"Me?" She snorted. "Gleb, if that was a joke, I have to tell you you've never been good at them."

"Anya, I mean it –"

"I talk a lot about wanting to discover my past, but really, this is ridiculous –"

"I saw Anastasia that night!" he blurted out. She stopped as his voice rose.

"I saw her ten years ago," he said, more quietly. "I remember because she was holding a dog in her arms… I remember her face. I remember her eyes."

He gestured to her. "The same eyes as yours."

"Gleb, they're just blue eyes – everyone has them –" Her voice rose slightly in pitch as she edged away from him slightly.

"Not everyone has the Romanov eyes," he pointed out. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor as she moved it back, her eyes now very wary and her expression fearful.

"I don't know why I never noticed until now… But the eyes alone give you away. And then you showed me the diamond – it was far too much of a coincidence that you were found with it, orphaned, when the revolution began."

"Are you going to turn me in?" she asked, guarded, a bite of sarcasm in her voice as her eyes darted around the room. "You seem to have all the proof you need."

He pulled his pistol from his pocket, and she started violently, her hands scrambling for something they couldn't find. "I have orders to kill Anastasia on sight." He laid the gun on the table. "I didn't."

Her frantic movements slowed as she inhaled sharply. "Last night."

"I couldn't do it," he assured her, pleading, but her eyes had narrowed and focused on him, quickly filling with anger.

"You tried to kill me," she said flatly. "While I was _sleeping._ "

He reached out, trying to calm her, but she leapt up from the chair.

"You _coward,_ Gleb Vaganov," she spat. "You weren't even going to give me a chance! You couldn't even look me in the eye before you would shoot me, Anastasia or not!"

He cowered slightly, shoulders hunching with guilt and the force of her fury as it broke upon him.

"Is this what they teach you in the army? With all your pretty speeches about 'a fair and compassionate Russia?' To treat people – even the ones you supposedly love – like no more than targets? No wonder it never mattered to your government that the rest of us were starving for years!"

"We didn't –" he tried, but she cut him off.

"And you think you're better than the Romanovs you hate! You waste your time shedding innocent blood on the basis of nothing but rumors and gossip, and you think that it will make Russia great! What if you're wrong and I'm not Anastasia, did you ever consider that? You would have shot me just for having the wrong eyes!"

"You would have at least been royalty with that diamond," he mumbled meekly.

"I trusted you!" she snapped. "Go ahead then – give me up to them if you can't finish the job yourself. But trust me, I won't go without a fight." Her fingers curled around the frame of her chair.

"I'm not going to," he admitted.

She looked taken aback even as she prepared to lift the chair. "What?"

"They will never know," he explained.

"Then why did you tell me all this?" she exclaimed, somehow sounding angrier even as she released her weapon.

"I wanted you to know," he quickly replied, placating. "If it means you have a family, if it means you have a home in Paris…" He held out the music box to her. "You could find out what this means."

He hoped she would agree to leave without knowing that she really would become a target if she stayed.

Anya exhaled noisily. "So you're bringing me to Paris for this?" she huffed. "Why? If you're not planning to tell the government, I'm sure they'll consider it treason."

"The Dowager Empress is about to give up on finding Anastasia – finding…you." He felt as though he had to wrench the last word from his throat. "She's your only hope. If we can arrive in time and show her that you're alive…"

"And what will you do, Gleb?" The bite was still in her voice, but it was softening slightly. "You're not going to sit there having tea with my Nana –" She broke off, as though surprised and confused at what she had just said.

"I'll come back," he explained. "You can stay as long as you need to – until then, I'll make sure Russia is safe for you."

"Safe for me?" she repeated, suspicious. "If the Dowager Empress is giving up, why would the government still be after Anastasia?"

"The commissioner won't call off the hunt – he believes that it's not over, that Anastasia is out there somewhere," he admitted slowly, berating himself for his slip. _Why_ had he said that? He could only hope that he need not say more.

Anya was silent, a pensive look on her face.

"He's put me in charge of the search," he reassured her. "You'll have nothing to worry about. They'll forget soon. He just wants to keep the people in line for a while."

"What if he believes…" she mused, almost dreamily.

"Anya?"

"What if he wants you to do it?" She sank back down into her vacated chair, as though something had hit her.

"Do what?" Gleb asked, trying to grasp her train of thought.

She looked at him gravely. "You can't come back here."

"What do you mean?"

"When you bring me to Paris," she continued, her voice bleak, if unsure. "You can't return here, or you won't make it back to me alive."

"Why?" He had it all planned out – they wouldn't fail –

"I think the commissioner knows I could be Anastasia," she explained. "That's why he's put you on the case. He wants to finish the Romanovs…and you're in perfect position if you're married to the last remaining one."

"It's only because I'm deputy commissioner," he insisted. The commissioner couldn't have – it was impossible –

"It's why he's so convinced Anastasia is alive…" She pressed her hands to her temples. "You remember the day of our wedding – he shook my hand, and he was shocked when he looked me in the eye. You said my eyes alone give me away."

Worry began to curl around Gleb's insides. The commissioner had asked Gleb earlier if "domestic situations" were keeping him from doing his duty. The commissioner had asked about Anya's history after the wedding…

"Will the commissioner believe you if you say something?" she suggested with a note of desperation. "Mention that I have family, let him know the eyes are only a coincidence –"

"I've told him your background," he responded in a hollow voice, his heart sinking. "If I try to tell him otherwise now, he'll know that I know something."

She placed a hand over one of his. "Then…we both need to leave," she said firmly.

"I can't," he said automatically. How could he even think of abandoning Russia without trying to atone –

"You _can't_?" she repeated, voice thickening as the ire returned alongside the threat of tears. "Don't you even dare –"

"Russia needs me!" he protested.

The next thing he knew, she had pulled a hand back and slapped him. He jerked backwards, bewildered, as she lowered her arm, shaking.

"If you're right," she said quietly, furiously, "if you're right, then I've lost enough family to them. Don't you dare put me through losing you too."

His cheek continued to sting as he let his head fall back over the top of the chair. "How can I leave?" he asked brokenly. "What will I do?" His entire life – he had always known where he was going…

"I don't know," she admitted tearfully, her anger giving way to sadness as she let out a sigh of defeat. "But there's no going back. Russia and us – we can't coexist, not anymore."

He'd never had room to think about what his life would be like without Russia…without the Bolshevik cause…without the expectations of his father's legacy. If he left, he had no future except for Anya.

He didn't know if she would be enough.

Yet he knew deep down that it was the only choice. He had already thrown the other option away when he failed to pull the trigger the previous night. Whether she would be enough or not was the gamble he would now need to take – to test the vows made on their wedding day.

He just needed time. He wished there was more time. To somehow be able to explain to his beloved Russia why he need to go. To appreciate her every facet. To see the sun rise and set over Leningrad again. To hear the gossip and chatter on the streets, which now seemed a beautiful thought. To watch the streetlamps glow in the evening streets.

Was this the payment for all the Russian blood he had spilled all these years? That he must now urgently depart the homeland before he took another life?

She stood, trembling slightly, and walked over to him. He looked up at her, lost.

"I'll find out when the trains leave tomorrow," she declared as she gently brushed her fingers through his hair. She looked spent, as though her emotions had wrung her dry.

He felt her tenderness rush through his veins like fire. He had been the one to overwhelm her with so much news, the one who had uprooted her world and everything she knew. She had to still be struggling with all she was knowing…yet she was again the one providing him with comfort now.

There was no time to mourn, not now.

"We'll find out tonight," he finally said, trying to regain his composure, letting his practical mind take over. "We need to leave as soon as we can – I can get our papers quickly enough." He stood and donned his hat, forcing his hand to be steady. "Come, let us go to the station."

A few minutes later, they were back on the dark streets dimly lit by lamps. Even in the quiet of the night, the city had never seemed so vibrant. Leningrad's grand structures loomed before his eyes, lit by bursts of gold.

Although the years of war and bloodshed and famine and poverty had ravaged them, they were still imposing in their majesty and aged beauty. They represented everything he had been raised to brought up to love, guard, and protect. All he had ever known, all he had ever needed to know.

And what awaited him was the unknown. If he was honest with himself, that was what frightened him the most.

Almost as if she could sense his unrest, Anya squeezed his hand. "It's beautiful," she commented. He could only nod mutely.

"My life was difficult… But Russia raised me to be the only person I know to be," she continued, wistful. "Paris is my dream, but I always thought I would come back in the end…"

Her sentiments eased the weight in his heart a little. That there would be someone to grieve with him in the years to come…someone who, like he, would never forget…

"Thank you." He voice came out rough with feeling as he continued to drink in every feature of the city he could see.

When they arrived at the train station, he hung back as she went to inquire about the train departures. His face might, after all, raise unnecessary alert. As he waited, he stared at the clock above the ticket booths, wondering how time could pass so slowly and so rapidly all at once.

She returned a short time later. "They're cancelling trains left and right," she confided urgently. "There's one leaving tomorrow at midnight if we can get our papers in time –"

"We can." He knew someone in the offices who could be persuaded to accommodate the deputy commissioner.

She nodded. "I trust you."

As they made their way back home, Gleb heard the ripple of the Neva nearby and tugged lightly on her hand. They headed to the riverside, keeping an eye out for vodka-sodden drunks who might be prowling the streets at this hour.

He gazed out across the dark waters, remembering a distant childhood spent by its banks. The river had seen so much of his life, even up to his most recent triumphs.

"It was so cold and harsh, but it made me feel safe to see it when I woke each morning," she mused from beside him. When he stole a glance, he saw Anya looking up at the bridge, watching the moonlight reflect off the steel. "I didn't consider it home, but it gave me shelter when I needed one."

They stood together, lost in memory.

Finally, the sound of inebriated laughter began to approach, and they hurried to leave. As they put the bridge and the river behind them, Gleb looked back one more time, tasting the bitterness of departure already on his tongue.

The bridge and river had borne witness to his and Anya's past and present, but they would now never see their future.

Russia never would. And he needed to begin accepting it.

Anya set about packing almost as soon as they set foot back in the flat. He felt as though he was planning in a dream as he determined the documents they would need to get out of the country, the money, the necessities.

The gun. He made sure to stow his spare pistol in his bag, resolving to instruct Anya on its use. He slipped the diamond into his pocket – if they were caught, it was best that the incriminating jewel was on his person.

He suddenly remembered Popov's notebook, and retrieved it from where it had fallen to the floor under the table when he'd removed his hat earlier that evening.

"This might help you," he said softly as he handed the notebook to her. "It has details about the royal family."

She took it gingerly in hand, nodding, and placed it into her bag, which was nearly full. Finally, she lowered the music box almost reverently on top, taking a deep breath as she fastened it closed.

"I'll see you at the platform tomorrow night," he promised as he shut his own bag. "Don't be afraid – I'll make sure none of this reaches the commissioner before we're beyond the Russian border."

He would do whatever he must.


	10. Chapter 10

Smoke from the locomotives permeated the air as Gleb entered the Finland train station. He pulled his hat low over his face to hide it as people pushed past him in a mad dash. The bowler hat felt uncomfortable on his head, as though he was wearing a mask.

His uniform had long since been stuffed into the very bottom of his bag – the moment he had left the headquarters, he had ducked into a secluded corner and quickly changed into a suit. Prudence suggested that he ought to dispose of the uniform, but he was unable to let it go.

A leather book of passports rested safely near his breast. He had swayed his contact with the sweet story of wishing to surprise his wife with a trip to Paris sometime soon, to celebrate their first month of marriage. His comrades did not know Anya very well, but they seemed appreciative of her effect on him. So the clerk had wasted little time drawing up the papers, even wishing Gleb safe travel and promising to keep the whole affair a secret.

Gleb didn't trust that it would be one for long, but he hoped the word would take a while to spread. Once they were out of Russia's jurisdiction, there would be nothing the government could do about his flight.

He scanned the area for any sight of Anya – they had agreed to meet at the ticket counters, but he was beginning to regret it. There were too many people – how was he supposed to find her in this great rush and in all the fog? It did not help that with every woman he saw who wasn't Anya, he found himself imagining the worst. That she had been discovered at the hospital. On the streets while hurrying to meet him. Or that she had already arrived and been caught –

Something brushed the small of his back, and he nearly leapt out of his boots.

"Calm down," Anya sighed in a low voice from behind him. He turned to look at her, and his jaw dropped.

She was in a disguise of her own – a slim gray coat, red-gold hair pinned up under a simple but sophisticated hat. She looked… She looked like she belonged in Paris – nothing like the Anya he knew.

"Train to Budapest on Track 4. Paris via Budapest on Track 4. All aboard," droned the announcement over the speakers. Gleb quickly shut his mouth, remembering himself.

"Surprised?" she teased, even though he could detect an undercurrent of tension in her voice as she glanced around at the guards patrolling the platforms.

"You look beautiful," he said sincerely, relieved when she relaxed, blushed a little, and smiled. He reached out to take her bag.

"No," she admonished him firmly. She threaded her free arm through his. "Let's go."

As they headed to their platform, Gleb caught sight of an older gentleman in a fine suit and a top hat. Behind his glasses, he seemed to be staring at Anya.

Gleb narrowed his eyes, suspicious. The man didn't seem to be a spy – Gleb knew who all of them were, after all. But then again, who knew what secrets the commissioner had been keeping…

The man caught Gleb glaring and quickly turned away, but not before Gleb noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes. Baffled, Gleb quickened his steps to put as much distance between them as possible.

It did not take long for him to realize that the train he was boarding was full of departing aristocrats. The flashes of extravagance gave them away. Had Gleb been in uniform, he could have almost all the passengers detained. But at the moment, he was a normal civilian who needed to hide as badly as they did.

He watched the former royals enter the carriage, sorrow and longing etched on their faces. Despite himself, he found himself commiserating. His government had forced them out of the country they too loved under threat of death – while these, the very people who had run Russia into the ground, deserved their fate, he spared them a moment of compassion because he understood now how it felt.

Beside him, Anya had extracted the notebook from her bag. She flipped to a page and began reading, only glancing up when she noticed him staring.

"I've been going through this at the hospital all day," she explained. "When it was quiet."

"Do you remember anything?"

"Flashes," she confessed. "Odd little details about people. But it probably doesn't mean anything."

He couldn't decide if that made him relieved or worried, and he lapsed into silence, letting Anya go back to her studying. As the train began to move, he stared out the window.

It was difficult to make anything out in the inky darkness that was broken only by the lamps inside the carriages. As his reflection in the glass caught the light, he found himself gazing at a face he barely recognized.

It wasn't just the suit and the new hat – Gleb had been out and about often enough in civilian clothing as a spy to be bothered by his appearance. It was the uncertainty, the fear, the…purposelessness in his features.

The aristocrats with him were headed to Paris to continue their lives of waste and debauchery. It was a terrible purpose that made his teeth clench, but it was undeniably something to go on. What was he there to do? Anya was right – even if the Dowager Empress accepted her as Anastasia, he wouldn't stay. He didn't even know if he could face the old woman – the last remaining symbol of Romanov tyranny – without incident, let alone speak to her.

He knew that some of the poorer citizens had run off to find work in France during the most difficult years of the revolution, serving the deposed royalty at a Paris club they frequented. The idea of that was repugnant to him – it was precisely the thing Russia had fought to be free of. Taking scraps from the fallen nobility would never be an option.

The sound of papers rustling roused him, and through the reflection, he watched Anya close the notebook and lean her head on his shoulder. She looked frustrated.

"I wish I could remember something," she murmured, worried. "I wish I had time to remember. What if she doesn't recognize me?"

"She will," he tried to assure her. The old woman shouldn't be able to deny the proof… It was her own grandchild.

"I don't know anything Anastasia's supposed to know, and she'll think it's too awfully convenient that I just happened to lose my memories," Anya pointed out. "What if she turns me away?"

"Then we'll start over," he decided boldly, seeing nothing but a blur in his future. "We'll go somewhere where there are no royals or generals. I don't know what I'm doing myself – we might as well find out together."

"That sounds like a plan." She chuckled and then yawned. "But just so you know, I haven't completely forgiven you yet."

He tried to hide a grin. "I don't blame you."

Anya was just beginning to doze off when the train screeched to a stop. A clanging noise broke the tranquility of the night.

Gleb sat up, ramrod straight, all of his senses tingling. Before long, uniformed guards were swarming the carriages, scrutinizing the passengers.

"Papers!" one of them called.

Gleb put a hand into his breast pocket, making sure their passports were still there. He wouldn't reveal them until he needed to…

Anya had woken and had quickly opened the notebook, ducking behind it and pretending to read.

"Is there a problem?" one of the passengers piped up.

"We're looking for someone who is illegally leaving the country," came the reply. Under the cover of the book, Anya grabbed for Gleb's hand. Her fingers were like ice.

 _We're legal. We're legal,_ he tried to communicate mentally.

More guards appeared in their carriage, flanking a man in a top hat. The man who had been staring at Anya.

"Count Ipolitov," a guard announced. "Had the wrong name on your papers, did you?"

Ipolitov… The name was familiar. Gleb searched his memory. Yes. He was on the government's hit list as both an aristocrat and a dangerous intellectual. Gleb himself had sent men out to find him before.

The guards dragged the count away as Gleb watched, knowing what was about to happen. Soon enough, a loud gunshot went off.

Anya cried out. As people turned to look, he quickly pressed her face into his shoulder.

"Apologies – my wife is afraid of loud noises," he explained. He hoped his voice was not distinct enough to be recognizable.

A guard approached. "Papers," he said stonily.

Cold with dread, Gleb withdrew the passports from his pocket with his free hand, willing a passive expression onto his face as Anya whimpered with sobs. He prayed the guard would not look too closely, although he himself would have been furious at any lack of careful examination.

The guard glanced at the papers briefly before handing them back without further comment. He nodded curtly to his comrades.

"Take your wife somewhere quiet until she stops her hysterics," he ordered. Relieved, Gleb practically snatched the passports back.

As the guard turned and marched down the row of seats, Gleb quickly grabbed the fallen notebook, making sure nothing had fallen out, and stuffed it into Anya's bag. He helped her stand, taking care to maneuver so that her face was flush against his chest, and picked up their bags with one hand. He kept his other arm around her heaving shoulders as they made their way to a smaller compartment. The guards stepped back to let them pass, and Gleb kept his face downcast.

As soon as they were safely ensconced in a private space, he sat her down gently, lifting her chin with a finger to see her face. Her expression struck him – it was the same look that had been there the first time they met.

"I'm here – there's nothing to be afraid of," he told her. "We'll be safe soon – they've let us go –"

She stared at him, but her eyes were unfocused. "That's what the soldiers said when they were pointing their guns at us," she gasped out amidst the sobs. "They said they were taking us somewhere safe… Toby's little heart was beating against mine… 'They're decent men,' I told him. 'They won't harm us –' "

Gleb's hands dropped to his sides, his ears ringing. Again, the image of the girl she had been flashed before his eyes.

He knew…

His father had been one of those soldiers. Anastasia had believed – trusted – to her family's bitter end that his father wouldn't hurt them… had been a decent man.

His father had betrayed that trust. Gleb himself almost had.

He reached a tentative hand out to touch her cheek, afraid to move closer. She leaned in, hyperventilating against him. He froze, and tried to whisper words of reassurance even though they felt heavy on his tongue.

Finally, her sobs began to subside. She straightened up, brushing at her face with the back of her hand. "I guess now I've remembered something." She was trying for a wry tone, but the atmosphere was far too bleak for that.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "On my father's behalf." Not that it would be enough, and he knew it.

She glanced down at the floor of the train, which had begun to rumble under their feet again. Her face was unreadable.

"He regretted it, in the end," he continued solemnly. "My mother said he died of shame, although I didn't understand why at the time."

"Do you, now?" she challenged him softly.

He nodded. "I think I do."

She was silent for a few minutes. Whatever she was mulling over seemed to be filling her with trepidation as she shivered.

Finally, she looked up. "I need you to help me."

Concerned, he reached for her hand. "What is it?"

She took a deep, shaky breath, and her hand quivered. "I need you to tell me what you remember from that night."

He let go of her hand, shocked.

"I have to know I haven't just been imagining things because you told me I'm her," she went on. "I need to know if it's all real."

"You're not imagining them," he pleaded desperately as guilt and fear surged in his veins. Telling her bits and pieces about that night in the cellar of Yekaterinburg had been bearable when all she was was Anya. But to have to describe to living, breathing Anastasia what happened to her family…

"Gleb."

"Please don't make me," he begged even as the memories, never far from his thoughts, rushed to the surface.

"Do you think I _want_ to hear this?" she snapped tearfully. "I've never wanted to, even when it wasn't supposed to matter so much."

He dropped his head in surrender. "What do you want to know?"

She hesitated. "Everything. Talk until I tell you to stop."

Uncertainly, he began. Anya was merciless, prodding him for details and forcing him to venture deeper into those memories than he ever had.

He had told the story many times in the army and in the government headquarters, almost as a badge of honor of his father's legacy. He had never told it as a witness to a grisly crime, sitting before the one who was both prosecutor and judge.

It did not take long before she was weeping – broken, keening cries of grief and horror as she curled up into herself. As he spoke, he felt every bit of the weight of his father's shame bearing down his shoulders. His spine bowed in response, and his lungs constricted, making it difficult to breathe.

"Stop," she finally gasped out. He immediately did, not without relief. He didn't know if he could have managed to say more.

She huddled in her seat, turning her face away as her entire frame shook violently. He kept his distance, letting her mourn.

Guilt as he had never known before crushed him as he watched her rock back and forth. He had spent so much time thinking about atoning for his disloyalty to Russia, not realizing that there had been a greater sin that he – his family – had been needing absolution for.

As the sun rose over the landscape, Anya eventually dozed off, exhausted. Gleb leaned against the glass window and stared out. He knew he should be tired himself, but he was unable to rest.

It was now more important than ever that she make it home – that she be reunited with perhaps the only other person who would be able to understand her loss. If that was all he would be good for, then so be it. The cycle would end with him – he would not be his father's son any longer.

He would be someone she could trust.

"I wonder what they would think of me now." Gleb was shaken out of his thoughts by Anya's scratchy voice, still rough with the remnants of crying.

"Your family?" he ventured carefully.

"I lived. And I somehow managed to forget them for a decade." She gazed into the lightening sky, and the rays of the sun threw into sharp relief how pale and drawn she was. Even though she had already wept for what seemed like hours, her eyes were still damp and rimmed with red.

"It's not your fault," he said quietly.

"Not only that, I bear the name of one of the men who –" She broke off, biting her lip as more tears rolled down her cheeks.

He wished so badly that he could say something of comfort. But what else could be said? It was irrefutable – the most wicked of fate's tricks had sent a Romanov into the arms of a Vaganov and made her one too.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, helpless. It would never be enough.

She did not look at him again.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you once again for all the reviews, especially to KatriaFaeyero and la-femme-cavalier for your constant encouragement! Thank you also to those who follow and favorited this story - you guys keep me going on this! :)

This chapter is inspired in large part by the fact that just over 99 years ago, the real-life Romanovs were killed. My greatest muse, Muse, made significant contributions to this chapter - their songs Soldier's Poem and Sing for Absolution served as the ultimate mood music once things took an unexpected turn.


	11. Chapter 11

The remainder of the day passed in relative silence. Anya would alternate between listlessly flipping through the notebook and watching the world go by from the window. Some of the passengers left behind after the raid would try to subtly pass by, morbid curiosity on their faces, until a glare from Gleb sent them running back to their own compartments. She refused to eat, and as the sun set, she settled into an uneasy sleep that was interrupted by sniffles and mumbled words he couldn't make out from where he sat on the opposite side of the compartment, still and tormented.

On the final leg of the train ride, he was watching the countryside of France zoom by with dispassion when he felt slim fingers thread through his hand. The rest of Anya curled up next to him like a cat, resting her head on his arm.

"I miss my husband," she said simply by way of explanation.

"Anya," he breathed, relieved.

"Shut up." She wasn't quite looking at him yet, and gloom still saturated her voice. But she was speaking to him again, so he immediately snapped his mouth closed and adjusted his position so that she would be more comfortable. They watched Paris approach in silence, and he sensed that the atmosphere had finally lightened slightly.

As a voice on the speakers announced that they were near the station, they began to ready their bags. As they disembarked onto the platform amidst the steam from the locomotive, she pulled him aside to avoid the crush of people heading for the exits and yanked his head down to hers in a deep kiss. Pleasantly surprised, he returned it with fire.

"Thank you for bringing me home," she murmured, her breathing unsteady.

A thought came to him on impulse, leaving his mouth before his fuzzy mind had a chance to process it. "You don't have to keep my name," he declared. "We're starting over regardless, aren't we?"

Her only response was to kiss him again, until something crashing into Gleb's back made him lose his balance and jerk forward. Anya let out a yelp.

"I cut my mouth," she grumbled, shooting a glare at a man hurrying away through the crowd as she touched a hand to the corner of her lips, which were now quite bruised. He gently pulled her hand away and lightly brushed the cut spot with a peck.

"Sorry," he mumbled against her cheek. He felt her smile, and he realized just how much he had missed that.

They finally separated and joined the passengers leaving the station, faces pink and hands clasped tightly. As they stepped out into the Paris evening, Anya gasped.

"It's beautiful," she said in wonder.

The city glimmered with what seemed like thousands of lights. Each streetlamp emitted a golden glow, illuminating the old-world structures towering over them. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower was a beacon in the black sky.

"Russia is more beautiful," he groused staunchly, unwilling to concede.

She considered, laughed a little, and nodded. "It is," she agreed.

They made their way to a hotel that was a short walk from the Pont Alexandre III and checked in, deciding to take a leisurely dinner at a nearby bistro since Anya hadn't touched food in almost two days. Her appetite returned with a vengeance as she dove into her meal, and he watched her eat with relief and fondness.

As a result of her years of struggling on the streets, Anya always ate with a hearty appreciation that made him enjoy food as more than just sustenance. It was one of the small ways she had him looking at the world he knew with new eyes. As he lifted a forkful of French food to his mouth, missing the flavors of the homeland, he knew he would need that more than ever now that he was entering this new world while gazing through old eyes.

"How are we meeting the Dowager Empress?" Anya asked when she finally came up for air.

"She has a lady-in-waiting who oversees all communication," he explained. "She's a regular at the Neva Club here in the city – I'll find her tonight, convince her to grant you an audience with the old woman."

"She's your grandmother-in-law now," she chastised him. "You should probably stop calling her 'old woman'."

"You still call her 'the Dowager Empress'," he pointed out. The idea that he was related to the old woman in any way made him twitch instinctively.

She exhaled and put her fork down. "It's funny. I know my identity now…as much of it as I can remember. I know who she is to me. But it still doesn't feel real to me. Like it will never be real until she confirms it. Until she recognizes me as Anastasia."

"She can't deny it," he said firmly. "It won't be long."

"How are you planning to convince the lady-in-waiting anyway?" Anya raised her eyebrows.

"I'm a spy, Anya," he reminded her. "I know how to talk my way into things." He paused. "At least I was."

She rolled her eyes even as she reached across the table. "I know, I know. The best in Russia, am I right?" She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"You should go back to the hotel. Sleep," he suggested. "You need it – you're dead on your feet. I can handle this." He had to prove he was still useful somehow.

She opened her mouth to protest, but all that came out was a yawn. "Fine," she conceded.

They parted ways in front of the bistro. "I'll see you later." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly before setting off in the direction of the hotel.

He took the envelope containing Popov's letter out of his pocket and checked the Neva Club's address. Gleb wasn't entirely familiar with Paris, but he prided himself on having a good sense of direction. He should be able to find the place easily enough.

He had walked only a short distance when ringing laughter that was unmistakably Russian told him that he was going the right way. He sped up, unable to suppress a shudder at the falseness of the sound, and the Neva Club soon came into view.

It was smaller than he expected, tucked into a side street of Paris. Doormen in traditional Russian costume greeted the fat cats in their furs and finery as Gleb stopped to observe from a dark corner of the street.

"The revolution was the last gasp of old Europe, and with it went our Tsar and our way of life – except in the Neva Club, where time has stood still. Am I right, Sergei?" a woman was saying to one of the doormen.

"He doesn't know what he's missed," another woman chimed in. Unperturbed by the comment, the doorman bowed them through the doors and turned to the next guest.

"Good evening, countess!" he announced brightly. Gleb's ears perked up, and he inched closer to see a middle-aged woman with short, curled brown hair stepping out of a cab, draped in a gold coat lined with black fur. This was her, then.

"The only good about it is that it means one day less," Lily Malevsky-Malevitch drawled. A brief, awkward silence followed, and she chuckled. "I'm joking, Sergei! I love life." But her voice dripped with sarcasm.

A smartly dressed couple approached the countess, waving to catch her attention. She plastered a dazzling smile on her face that did not quite reach her eyes.

"Count Gregori!" she exclaimed. "How was the ballet?"

"Dreadful!" the man responded. "You never heard such a racket! Thank God for Swan Lake next week. Real music! Not this… _Stravinsky_."

"You'll be attending with Her Imperial Majesty?" his companion chimed in.

"But of course. A lady-in-waiting's life is never her own," the countess replied.

"Marvelous! I haven't seen Maria Feodorovna since the Russian opera season!" The three of them entered the club, still chatting amongst themselves.

Gleb would have to approach this with care. He slipped out of hiding, hoping he could get by unnoticed.

The doorman spotted him. "Welcome to Paris, comrade. But sorry, they're not hiring – try the Russian tea shop."

Gleb flinched, both from the indignity and the recognition. "I beg your pardon?"

The doorman gestured. "Your shoes. Only fresh-off-the-train Russians wear shoes like yours."

"I'm not looking for work, comrade," Gleb insisted. He tried to nudge past subtly, but the doorman blocked the way and gave Gleb a hard stare. Gleb retreated – he would have to wait until the countess left the club, then. The last thing he needed was for the doorman to raise an alert.

Gleb found his way to a nearby café that was open until late. Taking an outdoor table with a perfect view of the Neva Club's front door, he prepared to pass the hours. Tiredness was beginning to catch up to him at long last, and he failed to notice that he has been dozing, his mind blissfully blank, until laughter permeated the haze of sleep he was in. He shot up, suddenly wide awake, just as the countess exited the club, exchanging goodbyes with some of the other guests. He rose silently from his chair and walked out into the street.

As the countess turned away, her easy smile vanished, replaced by a look of disdain. She drew her coat closer and got into a cab.

Gleb set off on a run, doing his best to keep the cab in sight. A few minutes later, it stopped in front of a large flat. As he tried to catch his breath, the countess stepped out and began rummaging in her handbag. Once the cab had driven away, he cleared his throat.

The countess shrieked and dropped her bag. "Who's there?"

He stepped into view, holding his hands up to show that he meant no harm. She sighed heavily. "Goodness. You almost scared the vodka out of me. Who are you?"

He bent to pick up the bag and handed it to her. "Lily Malevsky-Malevitch?"

"Really? Name doesn't suit you," she commented wryly. When he opened his mouth to protest, she rolled her eyes. "I asked you who you are, not if you know my name."

"Gleb Vaganov," he said uneasily. It felt dangerous, revealing that information. It went against all the training he had ever had. "You're the Dowager Empress's lady-in-waiting, are you not?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Keep your hands where I can see them. What do you want?"

"I have someone she might want to meet," he explained quickly. "Anas –"

"– tasia," she finished alongside him, her voice softening slightly. "I'm sorry, young man – Gleb, you said? She will see no more girls pretending to be Anastasia."

"She's not pretending," he insisted. "She's the real one."

"They all say that," the countess quipped. "And they never are. The Dowager Empress is tired of it – you're too late."

"I can prove it," he said firmly. "I can bring her to you and the Dowager Empress will know –"

"All the history books and newspapers will tell a girl all she needs to know to be Anastasia," the countess pointed out patiently. "Unless you have anything stronger than the ability to recite the Romanov family tree –"

"I do," he replied. "She has the eyes. The Romanov eyes."

The countess let out a gasp, and then slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide, as though she had not intended to make a sound. "Well," she retorted as she tried to regain her composure, "many girls have blue eyes."

"Those eyes are like no one else's," he reminded her.

She released her breath on a whoosh. "Anything else?" When he said nothing, she shook her head. "I can't get you a meeting with the Dowager Empress on eyes alone."

He hesitated. He had hoped that the mention of the Romanov eyes would be enough to convince the countess. He would rather not tell her more – the truth of his identity and history would cause a panic…

But the memory of Anya sobbing in the train swam to the forefront of his mind, and he knew he would have to take the risk.

"I was there," he admitted. "The night the Romanovs were…killed. She remembers the same things I do from that day. It is Anastasia, without a doubt."

The countess had backed up, now wary. "Vaganov… What are you?"

"I was a deputy commissioner in the Bolshevik government, but I –"

Frantically, she dug for her keys. "I don't know what you think you're pulling here, but I suggest you leave now before I call the police." Her voice shook as with a jangle, the keys were extracted.

"I don't intend to hurt you or anyone," he pleaded. "I just want her to see her granddaughter –" The countess opened the door a crack and squeezed herself through, slamming it in his face. A few moments later, he could hear her panicked voice on the phone through the window – she was making a report.

He couldn't stay any longer, or he would be arrested. He removed the envelope and the letter from Popov. He would no longer need them. Dropping the items onto the doorstep, he bolted.

As he made his way back to the hotel, he burned with disappointment and embarrassment. He had had one task – get to the Dowager Empress. Not only had he failed, he had probably put a price on his own head. With each step, his uselessness mocked him.

The Pont Alexandre III came into view, and he slowed his pace as he stepped onto the bridge. The city lights reflected off the still water of the Seine, and he could almost pretend it was the bridge over the Neva, even if it was a bit too bright. He needed to quiet the cacophony in his head.

There was another figure on the other end of the bridge, hunched over the railing. The person seemed harmless enough and was quiet, so Gleb turned his attention to the gently rippling river.

 _I've done everything he could, have I not?_ He argued against the worthlessness that needled him, trying desperately to find a way to justify himself. _Even to the point of revealing my identity._ _Maybe it was just never meant to be._

Perhaps it was simply time for Anya and for the Dowager Empress to let go of the past. He and Anya had agreed to start over if things didn't work out. The thought of being able to put that plan into action filled him with a selfish hope, and he clung to it, eager to let go of the crushing pressure of his failure. They could figure out the rest of life together, both of their ties finally broken…

A familiar voice began to hum a melody. The music box's melody.

Anya.

He turned around slowly, hedging on whether to let her know he was there. His shoes crunched against the ground, and she looked up, alert and wary, until her eyes settled on him and she smiled in relief, if wanly. She extended a hand, beckoning him to come closer.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, unwilling yet to have to look her in the eye. She rested against him.

"I've found it. My river. My bridge. My square," she whispered. "I can hear my Nana's voice in my head – she told me that we would walk along my grandfather's bridge together someday. Now here I am, but I'm not with her."

His chest clenched, and he buried his face in her hair.

"It's strange," she continued. "It feels like I'm stuck halfway. Between where I've been and where I'm going. Between all I've lost and all I'm learning. Between finally coming home to something I'm still wondering about and wanting to just run away with what I do know."

"I'd like that," he responded, hoping his voice was muffled enough to mask the shame he felt at being able to offer only that one option.

"You would." She shifted until she could face him, and he lost the curtain of hair he had been hiding behind. She looked so hopeful, but also so afraid.

"You told me something earlier, when we arrived," she said. "You said I didn't have to keep your name."

He had to think for a moment to remember. "I did. If it would help you feel better."

She took a deep breath. "But your name isn't your fault, just as mine isn't my fault. You helped me find out who I am. I don't want to lose the part of me that comes from you."

Unexpected gratitude filled him, making his eyes sting with salt water, and he pressed his face into her shoulder. She touched his chin with a finger, making him look up, and brushed her lips against his.

One kiss led to another, and another. He wasn't entirely sure who moved first, or if any further words were exchanged as the twinkling lights at the bridge gave way to the softer glow of their room.

Life itself seemed to slow down. The constant noise of his shame was finally muted, and she was all he could see. Her sighs and whispers were like prayers, a balm to all the sorrow, longing, and pain of the past few days.

Perhaps tomorrow, they would try placing their bets on chance again. For tonight, they would give each other what they needed…a small respite.


	12. Chapter 12

Gleb floated in the halfway state between consciousness and sleep. He was vaguely aware that the sun had risen, of the rays peeking through the curtain and playing along his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut harder to block it out.

Anya shifted in her slumber, her arm tightening around his waist. Her breaths tickled his chest, but he kept still so as to not wake her. Times like this were far too rare for them.

Idly, he pondered how these moments didn't have to be rare once they ran off together. They could always wake in each other's arms each morning, with no one to tell them what to do and who to be. All they would need to be were Gleb and Anya – everything else they could figure out later. The world could crumble away around them, as long as they were falling away together.

As the minutes ticked away, he slipped into lazily planning where they could go after Paris. Would they remain in Europe? His French was just alright, and while there was a good chance that Anya would be more adept than he at the language once she regained her memory of it, they might not have much choice – how far could two Russians without much money go? Perhaps he should just aim for somewhere closer, like the countryside…

Anya began to stir. As she stretched, she groaned a little. He finally opened his eyes, wincing at the sudden brightness of the morning.

"How long have you been awake?" she mumbled sleepily as his fingers trailed along the indents in her spine.

"Not long." He kept his voice low, unwilling to shatter the tranquil of the moment.

"Do we have to go anywhere?" She curled even closer to him.

He remembered the disastrous meeting with the countess and cringed inwardly. "No. You should get some more sleep – as long as you want."

"Did you find the lady-in-waiting last night?"

He tensed, and she lifted her head to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"I…found her," he replied carefully. Discomfort buzzed under his skin. It was inevitable that he would have had to tell her soon, but he had hoped that he could relish the morning some more before he had to…

"And?" She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

He settled for shaking his head, turning his face away. Even without seeing her face, he could sense her deflation.

"What happened?" she asked in a small voice.

"I tracked her to her flat because I couldn't get into the Neva Club," he admitted. "I told her everything I could about you…I had her when I mentioned your eyes. But she said that wasn't enough to meet the Dowager Empress, so I told her who I am –"

She sat up, looking disgruntled. "You didn't."

"It was evidence," he argued. "If a Bolshevik could vouch for your survival –"

Anya sighed. "And what did she do?"

He let out a hollow laugh. "She called the police, I presume. I didn't stay to find out."

She rubbed her forehead as she shook her head. "You do have a way of getting government officials to come after you, _Deputy Commissioner._ "

He flinched. That hurt more that he thought it would. "I tried." A bite of frustration seeped into his tone, and the euphoria from the previous night was gone now. He wished she could understand just how hard he had tried to give her what she wanted.

"I know." She lay back down, staring at the ceiling. "But I can't blame her for being afraid of you. You stalked her to her home and told her you were a Russian soldier. What was she supposed to think?" Anya was starting to sound agitated. "I would have run from you myself."

"You're always afraid of me," he retorted bitterly.

"And you don't give people a reason not to be! This isn't Russia anymore!" She turned on her side, away from him. For the first time, he didn't feel like reaching out. He knew he wasn't in Russia anymore – she didn't have to constantly remind him…

Yet the silence became unbearable after a while. From the other side of the bed, he could hear a sniffle.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbled. She looked over her shoulder at him, contrite and hesitant.

He touched her shoulder. "I can go back," he said quietly. "I'll try again."

"I don't want you to get arrested."

"If you come with me, she might not react so badly," he offered.

She shifted to face him. "I don't want you to think you can't manage this on your own," she said seriously. "But I want this, Gleb. I just didn't realize how much until it looked like I wouldn't be able to get to her. I know you would rather start over, but I can't go anywhere without meeting her. At least once."

"And I brought you here so that you could see her." In the back of his mind, his vague dreams of a quiet life with only the two of them faded into nothing.

She snuggled into his side. "I just need to try once. If I fail, I let go and move on."

He ran his fingers through her hair. "I don't want you to think that I don't want this for y0u," he expressed. "I may despise the old woman, but she might be the only one who can understand what my…ideals did to you and your own."

He lifted her chin with his finger. "I don't want you to lose that part of you. We are going to try. As much as we can." He needed to remember that he owed her that much.

She broke into a smile, eyes shining. "Thank you. We don't have to go right away – we can wait a few days –"

Something he had overheard the night before surfaced in his mind. "Next week."

Anya frowned, visibly disappointed but clearly trying to mask it. "Next week."

He hurried to explain. "The lady-in-waiting said the old woman would be attending Swan Lake next week. We can find her there."

"We'll be in public," Anya pointed out. "What if she recognizes you?"

"We just need her to see you – maybe it will be enough to stay her hand," he replied. "And it was dark when I met her – she might not know me immediately."

He paused, remembering his conversation with the countess. "She was kind to me, before she knew my identity," he admitted grudgingly. "She'll be kind to you."

"I hope she is." Anya sounded worried. "I hope I'm not too late…"

He hoped the same, but he couldn't make any more promises. He simply slipped his arm under her head and held her closely to himself.

Anya bolted upright all of a sudden. "We're going to a ballet next week."

He blinked up at her. "We are."

She began scrambling for her clothes. "We're going to need tickets." Before he could respond, she had flung his shirt into his face.

"Hurry up," she called before jumping out of bed and shutting herself in the bathroom. With a sigh, he started getting dressed.

A quick, late breakfast and a brisk walk to the Palais Garnier's ticket office later, they were looking at each other and wincing as Gleb slowly counted out the money for the ballet tickets. Now he was really hoping their plan would work, if only because they might just run out of funds soon if it didn't.

Back at the hotel, he was stowing the precious tickets carefully in his bag when he caught sight of Anya digging through her things, looking dismayed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she grumbled. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Fine – I have nothing appropriate to wear," she confessed. "I didn't think I would need to –"

"I can –"

"We can't afford it," she reminded him. "I'll think of something."

Wordlessly, he dug the diamond out of his bag, where it had been lying next to his gun, and held it out to her. Her mouth fell open.

"For your past. And your future." He gently pressed it into her hand. When her fist closed around it, it felt like he had brought something home.

They spent the remainder of the week traipsing around the streets of Paris for the things they needed. She had insisted on buying him a proper tuxedo, and as disgruntled he was at the thought of dressing so extravagantly, he couldn't deny that the look on her face when he had emerged wearing it was almost worth it. Almost.

Not that she hadn't done the same to him. She had found a gown in a shop one afternoon – a stunning, royal blue dress studded with beads. When she had tried it on, he'd found his breath stolen away. She was every bit a princess, and he felt so insignificant.

If they succeeded and she did become the Grand Duchess again, this would become her daily existence. Meanwhile, he still didn't have an answer as to what he would be.

As Gleb was hanging up their fine clothes on the eve of the ballet, Anya extracted the music box from her bag.

"I should show this to her," she said as she began twisting the knob to play the now-familiar song. "I think this was from her… I remember that she gave me a music box when I was a child, to remember her by when she left."

He recalled her nightmares, the pleas she had made. "You wanted her to take you with her."

Anya nodded. "She said someday. Then she was gone, and I never saw her again. I would have tried harder, if I'd known it might be the last time…"

And she would never have had to suffer so much. She would have been safe in Paris the whole time, alive and fully knowing who she was. Their paths would never have crossed, and perhaps the most Gleb would have done would be to hate the image of Anastasia from afar. Instead, he was here, defying all he had ever known to make sure that she reclaimed who she was.

Love was far from being a simple thing.

"Tomorrow," he assured her. "You'll see her tomorrow. And you'll be together." He had to gather his resolve to do whatever was necessary to make sure the Dowager Empress saw her. Tomorrow night, they would both lay their pasts to rest.

* * *

The opera house was swarming with aristocrats when Gleb and Anya's cab pulled up to the entrance the following evening.

Anya had wanted to walk, but Gleb had refused, not wanting to risk ruining her beautiful dress or her fashionably-styled hair. She should present herself to the Dowager Empress flawless and perfect, leaving as little room for question about her heritage as possible.

The chirping of Russian-tinged French filled the air as guests greeted one another and complimented one another's finery. Anya gripped his arm tightly, visibly uncomfortable as she glanced around. He scanned the crowd for any sign of the countess, strained to listen for her distinctive voice. But the sheer volume of humanity gathered on the steps made it impossible – Gleb concluded that they would probably have better luck inside, where the throng wasn't quite as oppressive. Anya breathed a sigh of relief as he steered them towards the doors leading into the lobby.

Once they were inside, Anya exhaled heavily. "I'm frightened," she admitted. "I don't know if I can do this here."

He opened his mouth to soothe her, but just then, a group of guards passed by.

"– remember what Madame Malevsky-Malevitch said," one of them was barking. "Keep an eye out for a Russian man in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Dark hair. Medium height and build."

Gleb and Anya froze. Quickly, he turned his face away from the men.

"There could be dozens of those in that audience," another guard commented.

"She said he claimed to be an officer of the Russian government," came the reply. "We're likely looking for someone with the posture of a military man."

"Those Russians really are incapable of letting anything go," scoffed another voice. "Coming all the way here to try and kill a former empress? You'd think they'd have better things to do."

The conversation grew unintelligible as the guards' steps faded into the distance. Gleb's heart crashed against his ribcage, and as he met Anya's eyes, he saw his fear reflected in them.

"We should go," she whispered urgently.

His instincts were screaming in agreement – it was time for flight. He fought to stifle the urge.

"We've come this far," he replied, forcing his voice to be steady. "We'll see this through."

"They're looking for you!" she protested.

"I can hide in plain sight – I've done it before," he assured her.

"Gleb –"

"Let me do this for you," he insisted.

She bit her lip, the struggle plainly painted on her features. Finally, she nodded. As the noise of the crowd approached, she tugged on his arm. "Let's go in."

They were escorted to their box, Gleb taking care to look away from theatre staff. They had been seated only a short while when whispers rang out around them, and they looked up to see the Dowager Empress entering her box.

She was straight-backed and dignified in a long black dress threaded through with silver, even as her hand rested on a walking stick. Her lined face was cold and stern as the Russian aristocrats in the vicinity rose and bowed deeply.

Beside Gleb, Anya clutched his hand, her palm like ice. "Am I dreaming?" she whispered, on the verge of tears. "Is it really her?"

Gleb's own grip tightened as he tensed, beholding the woman who, he had long believed, had always been Russia's enemy. She and her husband had terrorized the country, ruling with an iron fist during their term; yet, as he scrutinized her, there was something…brittle about her. She held herself with a steely pride, but the weariness in her face was not entirely masked. This was a woman who was…defeated.

It did not take away Gleb's disdain for her and what she stood for, as she glared down at the heads lowered before her. But he found that he was more...detached than he thought he would be.

The ballet began, but neither he nor Anya could take their eyes off the Dowager Empress, who was watching the dancers with an apathetic expression, for long. Once or twice, Gleb thought she had glanced in their direction, but whenever he tried to look closely, she would seem entirely focused on the scene unfolding onstage.

Anya's hand never left his, and her expression vacillated between hope and worry. Whenever the Dowager Empress would turn or shift in her seat, Anya would squeeze his hand, her entire arm trembling.

Applause rang out across the theatre, and Gleb realized that the ballet had ended. As the lights came up and the other guests began to gather their things, he turned to Anya and saw her frozen in her seat. She looked at him, as fearful as he'd ever seen her.

He knelt before her and took the music box out of his pocket, where it had been all evening. He wrapped her hands around the metal, and nodded.

She took a deep breath, and rose after a few moments. Straight-backed and dignified – just like her grandmother. He stood too, and offered his arm.

As they stepped out into the hall, he heard a distinctive voice.

"– the finest and driest champagne they have. Of course, Your Majesty," the countess was saying. Her figure, draped in brown, came hurrying in their direction.

Gleb took one more step forward. The countess skidded to a stop as her eyes fell on him and widened in recognition.

"Police!" she screamed.

Anya quickly moved in front of him, a pleading look on her face. The countess's eyes widened even more as she took in the sight. Her breath hitched.

"Your Highness," she whispered.

Gleb's shoulders slumped at the declaration as his entire body seem to lighten. The countess had recognized Anya. His job was done. Surely nothing would prevent her from meeting the Dowager Empress now.

The countess's eyes flicked to Gleb, then to back to Anya, at a loss for words. She stumbled, and Anya reached out a gloved hand to steady her. The countess rested her hand on Anya's arm, her dark eyes filling with tears.

"Lily?" The Dowager Empress's imperious voice floated into the corridor. The countess's mouth opened and closed, as though she was unsure quite how to respond. The sound of running footsteps drew near, and every nerve in Gleb's system pressed him to bolt, to hide while there was still time.

No. He couldn't distract them now. They were too close…Anya was too close.

"There he is!" yelled a male voice. Gleb found himself yanked backwards, his hands roughly positioned behind his back. A rough shove brought him down to his knees, and he felt metal closing around his wrists.

A part of him almost chuckled at the turn of events – just a season ago, he had been sent out by the government to arrest and end Anastasia. And now he was being arrested by a different government for the sake of reviving her.

Anya had been pushed aside in the hullabaloo, but he could see her trying to push through the wall of policemen standing between them. "He's my husband!" she called out desperately.

The policemen ignored her. "Are you alright, madame?" one of them asked the countess. Gleb couldn't hear a response.

"Has anyone found a weapon?" another policeman inquired.

A door opened in the distance, and Gleb could hear the tapping of a walking stick against the floor.

"Please stay where you are, Your Majesty! The rest of you, take him away!" came the command. There was a loud "oof!" and suddenly, Anya was standing over him.

She glared at the policemen, radiating power and strength. "Anastasia," Gleb whispered as he gazed up at her. In that moment, his Anya had become the Grand Duchess.

"What is happening here?" the Dowager Empress demanded, breaking the spell. Anya's hand dropped onto his shoulder, squeezing as her other hand barely maintained a grip on the music box. Her face was filled with longing now.

"It's under control, Your Majesty," a policeman piped up. "We're taking this intruder away."

The Dowager Empress glanced in Gleb's direction. Her keen eyes landed on Anya, and he heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Let's go!" Gleb was unceremoniously jerked to his feet. Anya's eyes darted between him and the old woman as the policemen began to drag him off.

 _Stay,_ he begged her mentally. He had already performed his duty to her, and now was her chance to be what she had been born to be. For him, perhaps it was time to pay penance for what had been done to the Romanovs, in Russia's – and his father's – stead. If this was his future, he no longer feared it.

Anya took one more look at the Dowager Empress. Then she bent and lowered the music box to the floor. As she straightened, he saw the countess reach out.

Anya bowed to the two women. Then she turned away and began walking in his direction, each step confident.

She did not look back.

* * *

Author's Note: We're coming up on the finish line for this story, and I wanted to thank everyone again for the support, and hang in there just a little more! And I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but feel free to drop me a line via my Tumblr! (blue3ski)

Spasibo!


	13. Chapter 13

"If you put him in a cell, you'll have to put me in there with him."

"Madame, please calm down," the chief of police pleaded. "You must understand – he's here on suspicion that he may attempt an assassination –"

"And I'm telling you there is no case against him! He's not carrying anything!"

Gleb watched, half in bemusement and half in awe, as Anya stared down the chief. Even though she was the shortest person in the room, she held herself with such poise and steel that she seemed to be the one with the most power. One of the policemen flanking Gleb had actually raised his eyebrows, looking mildly impressed.

The chief sighed heavily, ran a hand over his face, and turned to his men. "Alright. Put him in one of the interrogation rooms." He turned to Anya. "You may accompany your husband there, madame, although I'm afraid we will have to keep the handcuffs on."

Anya conceded. "Fine." As the policemen moved to push Gleb down the corridor, she stopped them. "I'll do that."

Clearly not wanting to be challenged by this ornery Russian woman the same way their superior had been, they backed off without a fight. "This way, madame," one policeman piped up, stepping forward to lead the way.

As soon as the door to the interrogation room locked with a click behind them, Anya clasped Gleb's bound wrists, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Why did you leave?" he asked in response.

She blinked and stared at him as though he had lost his mind. "Gleb, you were being arrested in front of me. Because of me. Of course I was going to come with you!"

"I got myself arrested so you could meet the old woman," he pointed out. "That was your chance."

"And I did see her. Honestly, Gleb, if you thought for one second that I would have let them take you away for that –"

"You might have thought about it," he remarked.

She considered. "A split second. No longer," she maintained.

"They would have let me go in time. This," he said wryly, "isn't Russia."

"What if they contacted the government back there and the commissioner found out where you are?" she challenged. "What if they decided to send you back to Russia? I couldn't take that chance."

"You gave up too much on that chance." Now the Dowager Empress would be harder to reach than ever.

Anya sat down on the nearest chair, staring at her gloved hands. "I took a gamble…I left her the music box. If it is our music box…and if she wants to find me as much as I've wanted to find her…she'll know where to find me, won't she?" She sounded hopeful, but her features were creased with the burden of the risk she had taken.

He sank into the chair adjacent to her. "What if she doesn't come?" he asked quietly.

She bit her lip and squared her shoulders. "I told you I would make just one attempt. If she doesn't come…maybe it was never meant to be. We'll go, and face our future together."

He lifted his hands and tried to trace her cheek as best as he could with his wrists bound. It was what he had hoped to hear, but that his hope might come to pass this way gave him no joy.

She leaned into his touch, but just then, the door opened and they jumped apart. The same policeman who had escorted them into the room entered.

"Madame Malevsky-Malevitch is outside, and she would like to speak to you," he announced. "Come along."

Gleb and Anya stared at each other in shock.

"She came," Anya whispered. She stood quickly and excitedly, pulling him up with her. "She came, Gleb!"

He nodded, smiling back.

When they reached the station's reception area, the countess was perched gingerly on the edge of a chair, nose turned up slightly. She had changed out of her fancy dress and was attired in a simple travelling coat. As they approached, she looked up and leapt to her feet.

"Your Highness," she said, beginning to sink into a bow.

Anya released Gleb's hand and hurried over to the older woman, gently nudging her back to a standing position. "You mustn't, comrade!" Anya protested.

The countess stared at Anya in awe for a moment before leading her to a seat. Anya looked back at him, questioning, and the countess followed her gaze. "Alright," the older woman sighed. "He can stay." The policeman nodded, and led Gleb to stand against the wall opposite the women.

The countess turned to Anya, elation on her face. "Her Imperial Majesty wants to meet you," she said eagerly. "That music box you left – I've never seen her so emotional. Please say you'll come with me."

Anya's eyes had filled with tears. "Yes. I want to. I'm ready – I've been waiting so long." She hesitated. "But my husband…"

The countess shot him another look, resignation on her face. "She thought you might say that. I'm supposed to at least bring a police escort if he comes with you."

"He means no harm," Anya pleaded. "He brought me here so that I could find her."

The countess pursed her lips, debating. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision. "Officer, let him go."

The policeman started. "Are you sure, madame?"

The countess nodded slowly. "Yes. There won't be a charge. I'll take it from here."

With a shrug, the policeman reached into the pocket for the key to the handcuffs. When they sprang open, it felt like more than just Gleb's hands had been freed. He rubbed at his wrists to erase the lingering phantom feel of the metal.

The countess was still eyeing him suspiciously. "Don't make me regret this… Officer Vaganov."

They piled into a cab the countess had hailed, and the entirety of the ride to the Dowager Empress's home was tense and silent. Gleb spent most of it staring out the window, stomach knotting. Beside him, Anya's eyes were closed as if in prayer.

After what felt like an eternity, they pulled up in front of a large estate. Even in the darkness, the house was grandiose and imposing, like its occupant.

The countess led the way into the drawing room. By now, Anya was gripping Gleb's hand so tightly, he could feel the tips of his fingers growing cold. The countess motioned for them to be seated on a couch leaning against one wall as she strode to a door on the other side and knocked lightly.

"She's here, Your Majesty," the countess reported.

"Send her in," the Dowager Empress replied. Her voice was steady and firm.

Anya rose tentatively, wringing her hands. Gleb nodded encouragingly at her, and she squared her shoulders, following the countess through the now-opened doors. A minute later, the countess exited and closed the doors carefully. She sat down at a desk facing Gleb.

"I should be home by now, soaking my feet," she drawled as she shuffled papers. Despite her casual tone, her hands shook slightly with nervousness. To ease her discomfort, he folded his hands in his lap, where she could see them.

A few agonizing minutes passed with them both sneaking glances at the closed door. He wondered what was taking so long. Had the Dowager Empress decided Anya's story was too unbelievable? Was Anya being interrogated about things she couldn't yet remember?

Or…had the Dowager Empress decided that she couldn't accept Anya because Anya was married to him?

The countess broke the silence between them. "You left something on my doorstep last week," she remarked.

He started at the sound of her voice, and cleared his throat. "Yes. I did."

"How did you know Vladimir Popov?" she asked softly.

He swallowed, hard, at the look of expectancy she was trying to suppress but failing to mask. "I didn't know him. I found…his things when we raided the old Yusupov Palace some time ago."

The countess had shown him mercy. The least he could do was return the favor.

She opened a drawer and withdrew from it the letter and the envelope. She ran a hand over the paper, and the sad longing was unmistakable on her face now.

"Thank you for not throwing it away. I probably would have."

"I have a notebook of his," he added. "If you want it, I'll make sure An…astasia passes it on."

"A notebook? The man never needed notes for anything. He was a master at what he did – anything he did," she mused, a quiet fondness in her voice. She looked at Gleb with more warmth than before. "But yes, I'd like that."

She remembered herself after a moment, and cleared her throat. "Well, we can't have random royal possessions lying around," she said in a businesslike tone. "Who knows what secrets are in that notebook of his."

"It was a dossier on the aristocrats," he admitted. "Those notes helped An…astasia a great deal." He really needed to accustom himself to using Anya's true name now.

"He left a notebook with _our_ secrets lying around for the Bolsheviks to find?" the countess exclaimed. "The _idiot._ "

He winced, remembering the circumstances by which he had taken possession of the notebook. "I…don't believe it was intentional. And in the end, he played his role in bringing her back."

The countess eyed Gleb shrewdly. "And yet you're the one who's here. I'm curious, Gleb Vaganov – how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? Helping the Grand Duchess reach Paris, _marrying_ her –"

He studied his hands. "She isn't the Grand Duchess to me. She's Anya, a street sweeper I met in Leningrad months ago."

The countess yelped. "A _street sweeper?_ " She caught herself as she glanced at the door. "Oh, if Her Majesty knew!" she continued in a hushed, distressed voice.

He bristled at her reaction. "She was doing well for herself." Which was not entirely true, but he hated the thought of letting the ideals of the monarchy win.

The countess rolled her eyes. "My apologies, _comrade._ Forgot who I was talking to. She was a street sweeper then – a very dignified way to live, I'm sure. Where do you come in?"

"I saw her because I respected what she was doing. She was everything a good Russian should be." He paused. "And she was unlike anything I had ever seen."

The countess leaned forward eagerly, and he straightened, gathering his composure. "We became friends, and were married."

"How romantic," the countess said dryly, clearly disappointed.

"My superior suspected who she was, and I found out for certain," he continued. He stared down at his hands. "But when the time came, I was…unfit to do what they would have wanted me to. There was no remaining in Russia after that, so we fled here."

"Oh." The countess's tone softened. "Now _that_ is romantic." As he looked up, she shook her head with a bittersweet smile. "Vlad was something like that to me, many years ago – there were so many things I would have given up for that man. Even after he stole my diamond ring."

He couldn't help clenching his fist even as guilt snaked into his heart. Thief.

"He's a thief, a liar," the countess affirmed. "Her Majesty never liked him – I never let her know he was a fake, but I think she suspected something was wrong about him." She picked up the letter again, rubbing the paper between her fingers. "I knew my husband might find out. I knew there was a scandal. But I could never quite let him go…there was nothing better than the way he made me feel."

She rose from the desk and came to sit by him on the couch. Gleb twitched involuntarily as she did, but she didn't seem to notice – or if she did, she chose to disregard it.

"I was never supposed to love him. I was a countess. He was a common man. But I did…and in another time, another world…" She sighed wistfully.

"And I was never supposed to love Anastasia," he replied in empathy. The countess's affair was far from what he and Anya had gone through; still, it felt oddly comforting to have someone who had so much as a clue how it felt to love the wrong person. Gleb found himself relaxing his guard, and in that moment, he wished he could somehow bring Popov back.

"And yet you gave up Russia for her. The Bolshevik general and the Grand Duchess," the countess commented. "Don't think anyone could have seen that coming." Her face turned serious. "What will you do after this?"

"I don't know," he confessed.

The door opened, and the countess leapt up. Gleb stood tentatively.

The Dowager Empress looked undone. All traces of steel and ice had fallen away, and tear tracks had created dark streaks on her cheeks. But, unlike earlier that evening, she seemed…alive. Joy and relief had erased the lines on her face, making her look younger, and for a moment, Gleb could see where Anya had gotten that smile he loved so much.

And Anya… He had never seen her glow like this – not on the day they were engaged, not on the day of their wedding. Then, he'd thought the very sun inhibited her, but now, it was as if even the stars were shining out of her.

She was holding tightly to the Dowager Empress's arm as though she was afraid to let go. The old woman laid a hand on top of Anya's, and nodded at the countess, who squealed and rushed forward. The three women hugged, and the countess sniffled as she lay a hand on Anya's damp cheek. They seemed lost in their own world, unaware of any other presence.

Emotion hit Gleb like a blow, and he had to sink back down onto the couch. It was done. Anya had finally realized her dreams, had been reunited with her family – and perhaps for the first time in ten years, she was truly happy again. As he watched her and the Dowager Empress, he felt a sudden, gnawing ache in his stomach as he longed for what they had. Anya had someone now, while he was utterly alone.

"You will remain here with me tonight," the Dowager Empress declared as she beamed at Anya. "I don't wish to be parted from you again."

The smile on Anya's face wavered. "I can't." She turned and gestured to Gleb.

The Dowager Empress followed Anya's gaze, and her eyes narrowed into slits with disdain. She moved in front of Anya as if to shield her.

"How dare you sit without my permission," she demanded coldly.

"Nana," Anya said placatingly. She stepped out from behind her grandmother.

Gleb got to his feet stiffly. " _Your_ permission?" he repeated coolly. The Dowager Empress's undeserved arrogance and sense of superiority chafed at him, causing his old ire against her to rise to the surface.

"Oh dear," the countess muttered, her brow furrowed with worry.

Anya hurried over to him and placed a hand on his chest, eyes pleading. Biting his lip, he struggled to temper his indignation. The countess had also leaned over, whispering furiously to the Dowager Empress.

"Very well," the Dowager Empress said in response to whatever the countess had been saying. "You will join me tomorrow for breakfast, Anastasia. I will send Ilya, my driver, to your hotel." She hesitated. "Bring him."

Anya's face brightened. "Thank you, Nana." Gleb frowned – he was not thrilled at the prospect of breaking bread with the old woman, but he knew that he could not deny Anya this.

The Dowager Empress's severe expression lightened. "It is so good to hear you call me that again, Anastasia."

The tension in the air broken, Anya returned to her grandmother's side and took her hands. "It's so good to say it, Nana." Her voice bubbled with emotion and gratitude. Behind them, the countess mopped at her eyes delicately.

"Lily, have Ilya see her…them back," the Dowager Empress commanded. She grimaced, as though the need to include Gleb was physically painful.

"I'll get him right away, Your Majesty," the countess replied, sweeping out of the room.

"I'll see you tomorrow, my dearest," the Dowager Empress said tenderly to Anya, who nodded earnestly. They continued speaking in low voices, reminiscing, and Gleb tried not to listen. He stared at the artwork displayed in the room, doing his best to lose himself in it. When the countess returned, he breathed a sigh of immense relief.

"The car is ready, Your Highness," she reported.

"I'll see you at breakfast, Nana." With a final squeeze of her grandmother's hand, Anya finally let go and rejoined him, lacing her fingers through his hand. They turned to leave, the countess leading the way out.

"Wait," the Dowager Empress called, her voice hard. They faced her, and met the full force of an icy glare directed at him. Anya flinched, and Gleb gritted his teeth.

"You. General. You have a uniform, I presume?"

It was still buried at the bottom of his bag. "Yes." He lifted his chin.

"Wear it tomorrow. I will speak with you. Alone."

Anya's fingers tightened around his as she tensed.

The Dowager Empress stepped closer, drawing herself to her full height and looking him in the eye. "I will face you as the Dowager Empress of Russia. And you will come before me as the Bolshevik _murderer_ you and your kind are."


	14. Chapter 14

It felt strange, almost alien, to be looking at his uniform again.

It had been badly wrinkled from being jostled throughout their trip – probably the worst it had looked since Gleb had first taken possession of it. Yet it stirred up powerful memories of who he had been – his passion, his power. As he fingered the collar, Russia whispered to him – a call so strong, it was almost a physical force that pulled at him.

There was no time to have the uniform cleaned – not that Gleb would ever have entrusted something so important to a laundry. Instead, he carefully pressed it himself, his movements slow and deliberate. It was as though he was preparing for battle.

Anya watched him from the bed, solemn. She made no move to offer assistance as he worked, and he was grateful for her understanding that it was between him and Dowager Empress. It was inevitable, always had been, no matter how much he had endeavored to convince himself that his contact with the old woman would be limited. They loved the same person, and Anya could never be torn between them for long. It seemed that fate was making sure that the Bolshevik general and the Dowager Empress would come face to face for one final confrontation – to hold each other to account for their actions against the other.

Finally satisfied with the result, he hung up the uniform with near-reverence. As he stepped back to take in the sight, he felt Anya's arms wrap around his waist from behind. She leaned her forehead against his back.

"You know we'll be alright, don't you?" she assured him. "Nana won't separate us."

He continued to stare at his uniform. "I am the son, the living representative, of the man who helped kill everyone she loved. I follow his ideals. I wear the colors of the state he built. I can't promise you it will end well for either of us."

"You are not him," she countered.

"She sees his legacy in me," he pointed out. "As she should."

She pulled him around to face her, and her face was determined. "No matter what happens later, don't you think of doing anything ridiculous because you think I'll be happier with Nana. I will come after you."

"Don't get yourself arrested," he said lightly even as his chest tightened. "I'm sure the countess won't like having to go back to the station again."

She shrugged. "I'll do what I have to," she promised fiercely.

He smiled wryly, making no assurances. "Come. We both need to rest."

Despite his words, Gleb was too uneasy to spend the remainder of the night in sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, dreading the coming of the morning. Beside him, Anya's eyes were closed, but he could tell by the tension in her body that she wasn't sleeping either.

All too soon, the sky began to lighten from black to violet. Unable to lie still any longer, Gleb eased out of bed and went to stand by the window. Almost immediately, he heard shuffling behind him, and Anya joined him a moment later.

"You should be sleeping," he chided her gently. "Or your grandmother is going to think I don't take care of you."

She pulled his arm around her shoulders like a blanket. "I doubt Nana's sleeping very well either. She must be just as anxious as you are."

"She's probably used to sleeping through uncomfortable events," he remarked sardonically. "She must have had much practice during her time as Empress."

" _Gleb,_ " Anya groused.

"I'll stop," he grumbled. If there was a chance he would be leaving Anya in the Dowager Empress's care, he needed to keep his opinions on her to himself. No sense departing with a bad impression.

They watched in silence as the sky turned pink, slowly bringing Paris to life. For what might be the last time, Gleb marveled at how exquisite Anya looked in the light of the dawn.

"We should get ready," she said as the sky turned a true blue. Her voice quivered slightly, and he nodded, the peaceful atmosphere evaporating with the dew.

He began assembling himself into Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, each action amplified with meaning. He had been putting on a soldier's uniform for years, more times than he could count in his lifetime; yet today, it was as though he was doing so for the very first time.

Anya, already dressed, reached up to adjust his collar. When she took a step back to eye her handiwork, he saw that she was blushing.

"I've missed you in this," she admitted. She looked conflicted. "Knowing what I know now…I should hate it. But when I look at you in it, I don't think of betrayal and death. I think of the first time I saw that uniform – the night you gave me your coat."

He smiled at the memory. It was hard to believe that it had only been a few short months since that evening.

"That was when I knew I might love you," she continued, a shy smile playing on her lips. She picked up his hat, which was lying on the bed, and straightened it. She started to hand it to him, then seemed to think better of it. With a grin, she put it on her own head, looking him in the eye the whole time. Without hesitation, he swept her up into his arms like they were back on the banks of the Neva, and she laughed against his mouth.

A loud knock on the door brought word of the driver's arrival, shattering the moment. They chuckled sheepishly at each other, and Anya brushed his hair back gently before settling the hat atop it. Gleb slipped into his coat to hide the uniform from anyone who might see when they entered the lobby.

The Dowager Empress's driver, Ilya, had been impassive throughout last night's ride to the hotel. But his eyebrows shot up as Gleb shrugged off the coat once they were safely in the car. Through the rearview mirror, Gleb could see Ilya looking bewilderedly from him to Anya and back. In response, Anya took Gleb's hand, leaning against him, and Ilya turned his attention back to the road without saying a word.

The countess answered the door when they arrived, clearly prepared to be cheerful as she greeted Anya. But the enthusiasm died away quickly as her dark eyes fell on Gleb and instinctively widened with fear. Gleb took a step back, uncomfortable, and Anya's warm smile faltered. Speechless, the countess turned around, beckoning for them to follow.

The dining room table was weighed down by silver tureens filled with Russian and French breakfast fare. Pots of tea lined the polished wooden surface. It was beautiful, and intimidatingly so – it served to remind him of how far he was from home.

They heard the tapping of a walking stick, and the Dowager Empress entered the room through another door. She was dressed in a blue gown that she might have worn in court many years ago. A crown rested on her white hair, the jewels sparkling in the sun streaming through the windows. Her face was emotionless and collected.

Beside Gleb, Anya inhaled sharply. "Nana."

The Dowager Empress's expression warmed as Anya hurried over to envelop her in an embrace. Then her attention shifted to Gleb, and the hand on the walking stick shook violently.

"Nana?" Anya pulled back, alarmed. The Dowager Empress's other hand flew to her mouth as her face contorted in horror.

"Your Majesty!" the countess cried out. She hastily went to stand in front of Gleb, as though she could block him from the old woman's sight. "Quick, get your coat –"

"I'm alright, Anastasia, Lily." The Dowager Empress was clearly making an effort to keep her voice even.

"Nana –" Anya began to argue.

The Dowager Empress patted Anya's cheek. "I'll just be a moment. Sit, my darling. You must be hungry." She took a deep breath and turned to him, almost as cool as she had been when she first came in. "You. Come with me."

"Your Majesty, wouldn't you rather have some tea first?" the countess offered tentatively.

"Not until this is dealt with." The Dowager Empress squared her shoulders and headed through the door she had come from. The countess opened her mouth as if to protest, but she made no sound. Instead, she clucked her tongue at Gleb and motioned for him to follow the Dowager Empress.

As he passed by Anya, she grasped his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He nodded shortly, and she let her hand fall as he stepped through the threshold.

The Dowager Empress was waiting for him in the corridor, frowning in disapproval.

"Move quicker," she snapped. "Who trained you to walk this slowly?"

He bristled. "You are not my commanding officer."

She scoffed and continued down the hall to another door, which opened to a spacious room paneled in dark wood. The ceilings were high, and a large desk dominated the far end. Paintings and photographs decorated each surface – images, he realized, of the Romanovs. His palms began to sweat.

The Dowager Empress seated herself at the desk, her walking stick propped against the wall beside her.

"You see them, do you not?" she said coldly.

He made a Herculean effort to look away from a picture of Anya and her family that dominated a wall in the middle of the room. He righted his posture and stared straight ahead, choosing not to reply.

She looked irritated, but did not press the topic. "I will not waste time," she continued. "What would you like me to do for you? I promised a reward to whoever brought my granddaughter back to me safely. I will not go back on my word."

"Nothing," he replied coolly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Nothing," she repeated. "Think it through – I can give you whatever you need to return to where you came from and leave us in peace."

He narrowed his eyes. "I do not need money to want to do a kind thing for my wife. Especially not your money."

Her expression hardened. "So high and mighty, coming from a mere lapdog of a cursed nation."

He gritted his teeth.

"I was told you witnessed what happened on the night of the massacre," she continued. "Why were you there?"

"My family lived across from that house," he responded, tone clipped as though he was merely making a report. "My father was a soldier."

Her features tightened even more. "He was, was he? And was it part of his plan to have his child witness everything? To teach you to become the savage that he was? Was that how they intended to train a new generation?"

He clenched his fists. "He told me not to listen. What I witnessed, I did so of as a result of my own choice."

"Does it haunt you that you did?" Her tone sharpened, became more vicious. "Do you hear them at night?"

Screams began to echo in his ears as if on cue – the shots, the yelling of the soldiers. As it all faded into silence, he fought to maintain his composure.

She watched him all the while, grim satisfaction on her face. "All for the good of Russia," she spat. "What good did it do to kill an entire family in cold blood? You remain poor. You remain powerless. You remain _weak._ "

" _You_ took everything from the people!" he retorted. "Your family prospered at the cost of all of ours! _You_ made us weak with your greed!"

The Dowager Empress rose imperiously. "How dare you," she hissed. "We gave you your way of life. Your own father would be nothing without my son granting him a position – and look how he was repaid!"

"My father saw the injustice your family inflicted on Russia," he shot back. "He may have been the one who pulled the trigger, but the people wanted you _gone._ Russia struggles, but she is and will be the better for it!"

She laughed derisively. "Is she really? We here in Paris have been neither blind nor deaf to what Russia has become – a land of spies, driven by fear and instability. And good riddance! She has damned herself to eternity for what she has done!"

"Perhaps it was your family that was damned for what they did for Russia for three hundred years!" He blanched as the words left his mouth. The Dowager Empress looked stricken, and even the photographs seemed to be glaring him in accusation.

"That was my son, his wife, and his children," she whispered. "They were not objects of sacrifice! They were not just _symbols,_ they were _flesh and blood._ "

"That was unnecessary," he admitted quietly.

Her eyes glittered with tears as a heavy silence fell on them.

"I hear them every night," he confessed, allowing himself to be transfixed once more by the picture of the Romanov family. "I couldn't tell you how many nightmares I've had about them since then – how many phantoms I've seen in the last ten years –"

"Good." She bit off the word violently. "It is already far less than you deserve."

"It destroyed my father, what he did," he divulged. He stopped short, then decided to continue. Perhaps he needed to say it to absolve his father's shame. "He regretted his actions, and he died with that regret."

She glared at Gleb's uniform. "You clearly did not share his sentiments."

"I…believed he did what was necessary," he said honestly. The Dowager Empress's hand curled into a fist and slammed into the desk with force.

" _Necessary._ " She spat the word out as though it were a curse.

"I know better now," he finished. "Or your granddaughter would not be here."

She gazed at the same painting that had his attention. "There was a time when I could have had you shot where you stood," she mused, almost dreamily. "Just one life, to pay for so many lost."

"So could I," he pointed out. "But neither of us have that power anymore, do we?" He removed his hat and tossed it aside.

The Dowager Empress's harsh expression slipped, and he saw the defeated old woman again, the crown heavy on her head.

"Why did you spare her?" she asked. The venom was still in her voice, but there was less of it.

"I love her," he said simply. "I need no more reason than that."

She looked thoughtful. "If I told you that leaving France – and leaving Anastasia – would be in her best interests, would you go? If you truly loved her."

"I would," he replied. "But we both know she would never allow it."

"There are many things I wouldn't know about her because she was lost to me for a decade," the Dowager Empress reminded him severely. Taking up her walking stick, she made her way in front of the painting. Her eyes took in each figure with a sad affection.

"If I'm correct," she finally spoke, "she will very much be her father's daughter. No one could dissuade Nicholas from marrying Alexandra, no matter how hard his father and I pressed him. He simply would not be parted from her, regardless of the consequences."

He followed her gaze to the couple, wondering for the first time how it had been for the Tsar and his wife in the Yekaterinburg cellar. At the very end, had they been separated only by a hail of bullets?

"I loved my son," the Dowager Empress continued softly. "Did I agree with everything he wanted to do? I did not. But he was my child…I raised him as well as I knew how. His father and I hoped that he would be able to carry the mantle of Tsar of all Russia with pride and honor for the rest of his life."

She stopped and took a shaky breath. "When those murderers killed him, when they killed his children, they took everything I loved in one terrible moment. I would rather have died there with them than believe that I alone would outlive every single one of them for all these years. I clung to the hope that someone might have survived to assure me that my living was not in vain."

She reached out and traced young Anya's face in the painting tenderly. "And of them all, it was Anastasia who did."

"She's resourceful, and unshakeable." He hedged briefly, but he knew that unlike the countess, the Dowager Empress could handle the truth about Anya's tenacity. "Ten years of poverty, and she found a way to survive. She never wavered in her desire to find you, even when she couldn't remember who you were. She even convinced a deputy commissioner of the Bolshevik government, committed to his cause since his youth, to turn his back to his own country just to aid her in her quest."

The Dowager Empress eyed him, and for the first time since they had met, it was without anger or disdain.

"Your father may have shown remorse, but I can never forgive him for what he did to my family," she said finally. "I resent that you gave my granddaughter his name, and in my eyes, she will always be a Romanov."

It was nothing less than Gleb had expected, and nothing less than he would expect. He might not have reacted too differently, in her position.

"Yet…you have given me back her one precious life," she went on. She looked him in the eye. "I can hold you accountable for nothing more."

He exhaled, and as he did so, his body felt lighter, as though a burden he never knew he was bearing had lifted.

Perhaps he had, at long last, laid the Romanovs to rest for himself.

The Dowager Empress cleared her throat. "I will return to breakfast." Her voice was steady once more. Without another word, she turned her back to him and strode towards the door. He looked around the room one more time, taking in the faces of the royal family, and then shut the door behind him as he followed her out.

When they reentered the dining room, Anya and the countess froze mid-sentence. Their faces were clouded with anxiety.

The Dowager Empress frowned at the table. "These dishes have gone cold! Why haven't you eaten, my dear?"

"Nana." Anya rose hesitantly from her chair. "Gleb." He kept his face impassive as he opted to await the Dowager Empress's cue.

"I don't like him," she said dismissively. Anya's face fell as the Dowager Empress seated herself at the head of the table and called for a maid to bring more hot food and drink.

"Your Majesty –" the countess began uncertainly.

The Dowager Empress looked at Anya. "Can you be parted from him?"

Anya lifted her head and held her grandmother's gaze. "No, I will not, Nana. I love him."

"Well, I tried," the Dowager Empress sighed. "You really are your father's daughter."

Anya's face began to brighten.

"He was the same way with your mother," the old woman mused. "It seems your…general knew you have the same stubbornness in you."

"I never gave him any reason to doubt that," Anya replied. She smiled cheekily.

The Dowager Empress glanced at Gleb as he tried to suppress a grin of his own. "He's better than his father. I'll give him that."

Anya beamed at him proudly, and then proceeded to throw her arms around her grandmother. "Thank you, Nana," she murmured, her voice radiating joy and relief. The Dowager Empress returned the embrace fiercely.

Gleb heard a sniffle, and he saw the countess grabbing a table napkin to dab at her eyes with.

"Good job, Gleb," she whispered to him.

"Now do sit, you all have my permission," the Dowager Empress intoned as Anya released her, wiping tears from her face. She took the seat at her grandmother's right, while the countess sat down to the Dowager Empress's left. After a moment's pause, Gleb took the chair beside Anya as hot food was laid out to replace the cold dishes.

The Dowager Empress turned to Anya as her tea was poured. "My dearest, what can I do for you since you've chosen not to claim your title as Grand Duchess?"

Gleb blinked in surprise, and the countess spilled tea onto her saucer as she gaped at Anya in shock.

Anya smiled. "I don't know yet, Nana. But I'll stay close to you. And Gleb and I will figure out where this road will lead us – together."

"You don't want to be the Grand Duchess?" the countess exclaimed. "But why? You'll live like a queen!"

Anya fiddled with a fork. "I was born the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov. But that's not who I've been for a long time, Lily," she explained. "I came here to find my family, not a title. I'm just…Anya. And I'm happy to be her."

She put her hand on Gleb's as he stared at her, his heart close to bursting. "And it will keep us safe. The Bolshevik government might send someone after us to finish what they started if I reclaimed the identity of Anastasia in public. But if no one ever does, then they can write me off as nothing but a fairy tale."

"The case would be closed." He smiled, nearly vibrating with pride.

"Oh. I guess when you put it that way…" the countess conceded.

The Dowager Empress nodded approvingly. "No matter what you decide, you are under my protection, Anastasia." She cast him a brief look. "I suppose he is too."

The doorbell rang, and the countess went to see who was at the door. When she returned, it was with a look of exasperation. "It's Count Leopold, Your Majesty. Again. He's still trying to make you sign those papers designating him heir to the Romanov fortune."

"Such a good time to put the general to good use." The Dowager Empress rolled her eyes and rose from her chair.

"Vodka breath!" Anya exclaimed. They all stared at her, and she reddened. "I remember my parents talking about him…"

The Dowager Empress burst into delighted laughter. "You're right, Anastasia – they did call him that. Behind his back, of course." She swept towards the door. "Now I must go get rid of him. Lily, escort them to the garden – he mustn't see them."

The countess led them down the corridor, apologizing for the interrupted meal as she went. She stopped in front of a pair of glass doors leading out to a terrace.

"We won't take long," the countess promised as she escorted them through. As she rushed back inside the house, Gleb and Anya looked out over the maze of hedges that dominated the garden.

"Where do we go from here?" he wondered aloud.

She slipped her hand into his. "One step at a time. The world is vast, and we have all the time in it." She beamed up at him.

There was no telling what was waiting for him at the end of this path they were on. But as long as he had his home, his love, and his family with him, he decided that it was enough. They already had tackled one hope together – another would be no different.

He smiled back. "Well, I'm here every day."

* * *

Author's Note: And so ends my Glenya fairy tale. My heartfelt thanks to everyone for following Gleb and Anya throughout the journey I've crafted for them! All the faves, follows, the comments and feedback - every single one made my day. Thank you for making the writing of this story such a fulfilling process, and for helping me make it to the end! For those who were here from the first chapter to the last, I love you all for sticking with me for the past two months!

A special shoutout to vampyrekat on Tumblr, my Glenya coparent, for all the awesome discourse, ideas, and feedback. Another to defying-gravity229 for being the first to encourage me to turn my concepts from a Tumblr post into an actual fanfic, and for constantly offering insightful thoughts :)

I'm looking to put together my soundtrack for this fic soon - if you're interested to know what music made this story tick, keep an eye on my Tumblr!

Spasibo!


	15. Epilogue

_One year later_

* * *

The blue of the sky deepened to indigo, and the streetlights blinked to life as evening fell on Paris.

Gleb quickened his steps as he neared the door of his flat, sighing a little in relief. It had been a long day, and all he wanted to do was be home. As he entered, a high-pitched cry sounded from one of the rooms and he hurried to remove his coat.

"Shh," Anya was cooing to the small bundle of blankets in her arms. Gleb exhaled and smiled fondly as he watched her from the threshold of their bedroom.

As always, she knew he was there. "Look, your papa is home," she announced brightly.

Gleb approached his wife and child, wrapping an arm around Anya's shoulders in the closest approximation of a hug he could give her given her position. She turned and lifted her chin so he could capture her lips in a kiss.

The crying lightened to a gurgle, interrupting the moment and making them both laugh. Anya extended the bundle to him, and Gleb reached out to hold his son.

They had never been able to decide properly on a name, not until the moment he was born. As the baby was laid in an exhausted Anya's arms, she had looked at his face and began to cry.

" _Alexei," she said simply._

 _From where she stood in the corner of the room, the Dowager Empress let out a sniffle as Anya looked to Gleb, questioning._

 _Alexei. The younger brother who had been her closest friend, who she had lost in that terrible night. He could feel the Romanovs watching him again for the first time in nearly a year._

 _Anya was looking for a second chance to protect him. Gleb needed a second chance to make things right._

" _Alexei," he confirmed, and the name felt absolutely right rolling off his tongue. When he went to Anya's side and beheld his son for the first time, he knew they had chosen well._

 _Alexei was beautiful, with a shock of dark hair and round, pink cheeks. As he yawned and blinked up at his father, Gleb gazed into his eyes._

 _They were eyes of the same striking blue that had changed Gleb's life. His mother's eyes._

" _When you're done staring, you might want to hold him," Anya teased gently. Gleb glanced down at his hands, which suddenly seemed so large and clumsy next to something so delicate._

 _"I can't," he whispered. It wasn't his lot to be trusted with something so pure –_

 _Alexei made a sound like a whine, and Anya grinned triumphantly. "See? He wants you."_

" _I don't know how," he protested._

" _I'll show you."_

 _Gleb felt like a child again as Anya carefully instructed him on how to position his arms to support a baby. He finally formed an awkward cradle, and his heart pounded as Anya tucked Alexei's swaddled body into it. He was now so close, Gleb could probably count each eyelash._

 _Alexei's eyes latched onto Gleb's face, searching, and Gleb felt the same rushing in his veins he had felt the night he fell in love with Anya. Without thinking about it, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Alexei's forehead. As Gleb closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of his son, his eyes stung with the tears pooling under his lids._

 _They had created this. The union of two people who should never have been had made a future. A future who would never again be haunted by the shadows of the past, who would never again inherit a legacy of blood, who would never again be lost._

Anya was watching them, a tender smile on her face that mirrored the one he'd given them just moments before. "I'll leave you boys to it while I get ready for dinner." She stood on tiptoe to kiss Gleb again. "Make sure to wash up," she said against his mouth. "Nana and Lily will be here soon."

Gleb wrinkled his nose at the reminder, and Anya sighed. "Be nice." She narrowed her eyes at him and smacked his shoulder lightly as she turned to leave the room.

Once she was gone, Gleb rolled his eyes at Alexei. The baby blinked at Gleb, his innocent face baffled. "I know," Gleb sighed. "You actually like her."

Practically from the moment they had learned that Anya was pregnant with Alexei, the Dowager Empress had doted on her great-grandson, sparing no expense to make sure Anya had the best care possible. And from the day Alexei was born, she had showered him with constant affection, as well as the finest toys and equipment. She had even convinced Gleb and Anya to remain in Paris so she could keep an eye on things.

It was a service Gleb had grudgingly accepted as necessary when he eventually accepted a job working with the French police. Obtaining the position had been a funny consequence of his arrest the previous year – while it wasn't much, it made use of his skills, gave him a living wage, and enabled him to protect his family in an official capacity. Anya, meanwhile, was to be introduced as the Dowager Empress's new lady-in-waiting once Alexei was older. Lily – as he had grown accustomed to calling the countess – had been thrilled, as it meant she could finally have a life of her own again.

All in all, Gleb and the Dowager Empress no longer had as…contentious a relationship as they did in the past. At least he liked to think that was the case. But there were some scars that simply did not heal, and they were never going to be family in anything more than legal relation – not that either of them particularly wanted to be.

Alexei let out a sound like a huff, as though exasperated, and Gleb chuckled as he traced his son's cheek with the back of a finger. The doorbell rang, and he hurried to place Alexei back in his bassinet.

Lily's enthusiastic chatter was already floating down the hallway. "Where's my godson?" she called, loudly enough for Gleb to hear. Quickly checking to make sure he looked decent since he hadn't washed up, Gleb carried the cradle out to where the women were waiting. Anya looked at him and sighed heavily. He grinned back sheepishly.

"There he is!" Lily squealed. She barreled past him and leaned over the baby, enraptured.

"Your shirt is wrinkled," the Dowager Empress snapped in greeting as she looked him over disdainfully.

"In service of noble France," he shot back, his tone mocking.

"Your Majesty, he's looking for you!" Lily exclaimed, even though Gleb hadn't heard a peep. But it worked as the Dowager Empress's face brightened – she shouldered past him and carefully lifted Alexei out of his bed, mumbling terms of endearment. Behind her back, Lily rolled her eyes at him.

"Gleb, come help me," Anya commanded softly. "Nana, Lily – will you be alright –"

" _Help,_ " the Dowager Empress snorted. "When he should be waiting on her hand and foot –"

Alexei whined just then, and Anya sighed in visible relief as her grandmother turned back to the bundle in her arms.

As he and Anya made their way into the kitchen, Gleb muttered, "I know, I know."

"She's coming around," Anya quipped. "She hasn't complained about Alexei having your hair all week."

"Victory," he replied sarcastically.

Anya handed him a pot of stew. "One day."

As the table was set for dinner, Lily shot a glance at Alexei. Then with an impish smile on her face, she pulled a bottle of clear liquid out of the large bag she had brought in.

"Lily!" the Dowager Empress exclaimed, scandalized.

Lily quickly stuck the bottle behind her back. "He's too young to know anything yet, Your Majesty!"

The Dowager Empress continued to look flabbergasted, but Anya laughed. "It'll be fine, Nana. It would be nice to celebrate."

"You're not allowed to have any, you're still feeding," the Dowager Empress said immediately.

"I won't, Nana," Anya replied obediently. "But I don't see why the rest of you can't."

"Me?" Gleb began to protest, but Lily clapped her hands.

"Great!" She unscrewed the bottle and poured a small amount into three of the glasses. "We won't get carried away, Your Majesty."

As Lily slid one of the glasses over to him, Gleb hesitated. He hadn't had a drink in a very long time, not since Russia. Things had moved so quickly since then – shortly after Anya had reunited with the old woman, they had discovered she was with child, and there had been very little time to even think about such things. It felt almost…. _rebellious_ to have vodka in his hands right now.

"You're looking uptight again," Lily remarked as she gulped down her drink. "It won't hurt, you know."

"She's right," Anya pointed out as she ladled out stew. "Gleb, you're allowed to relax sometimes. And you need to."

He placed the glass beside his plate. "With dinner," he said pointedly to Lily.

The first few minutes of the meal passed without incident as Anya regaled the women with stories of her day with Alexei. He listened rather than talked, smiling at how easily Anya had taken to motherhood. It used to keep her up at night, the fear that she wouldn't be a good mother. She barely remembered what it was like to have a mother, she often said. How could she be one now without any frame of reference?

It was her time with her grandmother that had ultimately been the key. To help jog the rest of Anya's memories, the Dowager Empress went through family photos with her, reminiscing and telling stories about them. Over the past year, Anya had started recalling things she and her parents and siblings would do together – things that weren't painful, that represented the happier childhood she had once had.

Whenever he overheard them, it always felt like reopening old wounds. But he had promised himself he would bear it all for the rest of his life as his penance. He had already received more than he deserved in return.

"Gleb, you still haven't touched that vodka," Lily called out as she reached for the bottle to refill her glass. The Dowager Empress rolled her eyes as she drained her own drink.

He had been hoping to save it for after dinner, but he knew Lily wouldn't stop hounding him until he drank. The alcohol burned going down, the novelty of the feeling surprising him.

"There we go." Lily splashed some more vodka into their glasses.

"How is it?" Anya, seated beside him, asked in a low voice.

"Good," he replied as the drink began to settle in his bones. Perhaps they were right – he _could_ stand to loosen up. It wasn't bad at all, the feeling.

He turned back to his plate. As he lifted his fork, Alexei began crying, bringing him and Anya out of their seats.

"Stay, I'll be fine," Anya said as she pushed her chair back. "He probably needs changing. I'll be back."

As she scooped Alexei into her arms and hurried into the bedroom, Lily stood up. "I'll come too!" Before either Gleb or the Dowager Empress could react, she was at Anya's heels.

The complete silence that descended on the dining table was as heavy as hoarfrost in the Russian winter. For the first time that evening, he realized that he was sitting directly opposite the old woman – why hadn't he noticed this poor seating arrangement before? Quickly, he reached for his glass and downed its contents, hoping the vodka would make the minutes until Anya and Lily returned easier to bear.

The Dowager Empress seemed to have reached a similar conclusion as she finished her glass in one gulp. She extended her hand to pick up the bottle just he made the same motion. Her eyes narrowed at almost the same time his did.

Fine. He would remember his manners, Dowager Empress or no. She was his grandmother-in-law, as Anya constantly reminded him. With that thought firmly in mind, he pushed the bottle towards the old woman.

She sniffed imperiously as she filled her glass. Then she shoved the bottle back at him. He poured a little more vodka than what Lily had been giving him for himself.

The bottle went one way, then another. It helped with the discomfort.

But he had probably had enough for an evening. He'd have his last drink when Anya came back, and they would finish this dinner in peace.

* * *

"Should we be getting back?" Anya commented as she disposed of the soiled nappy. She tried to keep her voice light even as her insides squirmed at the thought of Gleb and Nana being left alone for too long.

"That's why I brought vodka," Lily remarked as she rested Alexei's head on her shoulder. "Maybe they'll realize they make good drinking mates."

Anya tried to laugh. "Dinner's getting cold."

"Alright, alright," Lily sighed. "But really, everything's going to be fine. They're adults. They've been alone together before and didn't kill each other."

In theory, Lily had a point. But Anya had often seen how Gleb's jaw would tighten whenever Nana made a snide comment at him, and how Nana's eyes would flash at his mockery. She wanted to trust them, but she couldn't help but wonder when one of them would deliver the straw that would break the camel's back. Anya had hoped that proximity would push them to get along when they had moved in with Nana briefly during Anya's pregnancy, but she had long since brought herself to accept that Gleb and Nana could never reconcile.

It wasn't the ideal situation, and it wore on Anya on the worst of days. But she tried to remind herself that she couldn't complain – she had already gotten the best of both worlds. It was a gift she knew Gleb had paid a heavy price for, and she could not make it any harder for him.

When she, Alexei, and Lily reached the dining room, Anya breathed a sigh of relief. Gleb and Nana were simply sitting in silence, passing the vodka back and forth. Neither of them were smiling, but they seemed to have at least worked out a civil arrangement over alcohol.

"I told you," Lily said smugly. "Vodka makes everything better." Anya nodded, grinning. Maybe she needed to start keeping a bottle or two around the house.

" _Anya!_ " Gleb exclaimed enthusiastically as he spotted her approaching. His entire face brightened, and he looked like a young boy. The drink was already clearly starting to affect him.

"You need to eat a little more if you're going to be drinking so much," she chastised him lightly as she sat down in her chair and rubbed his back. He leaned slightly into her touch.

Lily leaned over to peer at the bottle. "I'm impressed. Your general can handle his liquor. I should have done this months ago."

" _General,_ " Nana hissed.

Lily clapped a hand to her mouth. "Did I say that?" Shifting her grip on the baby, she slowly nudged the vodka in Nana's direction as Anya quickly spooned some more stew onto Gleb's plate. But it was too late. Gleb's eyes narrowed and he put his fork down.

Nana had refilled, so Anya grabbed the bottle and splashed some more vodka into Gleb's glass. She pushed it into his hand, and without taking his eyes off Nana, he knocked the drink back. It seemed to relax him, and he returned his attention to the food.

"Dead on his feet already?" Nana remarked coolly. Gleb looked up, a steely glint in his eye.

" _I am NOT,_ " he declared loudly around a mouthful of stew and bread. In Lily's arms, Alexei squeaked, and they all froze. But he slept on as though nothing had happened.

"Shh!" Anya hissed.

" _Sorry._ " Gleb's face drooped with visible guilt, and he tentatively touched her shoulder. Anya softened. He hadn't meant it, after all.

"It's OK," she said more gently. She placed her hand on his arm, and relief flooded his features. She couldn't keep a smile from forming – it was… unsettling to see Gleb's emotions so easily on display the way they were now, but it was a kind of unsettling that she could get used to.

Even though he had already shared the darkest part of his past to her, she felt that Gleb had always maintained a strong front where she was concerned, something that had intensified with Alexei's coming. He tended to measure the feelings he was willing to show – she knew he didn't want her to worry, didn't want her to doubt him. Yet, she sometimes wondered how much of the real Gleb she had been made privy to.

The vodka seemed to be punching through the walls he had built up for himself, opening a window into the rawness of him. Not that she wanted him perpetually drunk…but she wanted to see more.

The drink was now more than halfway gone, and Lily was simply watching Nana and Gleb with mirth.

"I think Her Majesty is winning," she commented. Gleb sat up a little straighter and grabbed his glass.

"This isn't a competition, Lily," Anya pointed out, trying to stifle her amusement at Gleb's insulted expression.

"You don't want to keep score?" Lily sighed, looking disappointed.

"I've never even seen him drink since I've known him. He's at a disadvantage." Anya peeked at him as he finished another shot.

His face was flushed, and as he put the glass down, he leaned his head on her shoulder. "I might have had enough," he mumbled into her neck.

Across the table, Nana's eyebrows shot up, and Gleb jerked suddenly. The top of his head nearly slammed into Anya's chin.

" _Sorry!_ " he exclaimed. He shook his head as though trying to clear it and cradled her face in his hands, checking if she was hurt. "Did I –"

"No, you didn't," she assured him quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a smirk on Nana's lips, partially hidden behind the rim of her glass.

Gleb turned in Nana's direction, glaring. Without taking his eyes off her, he trailed his mouth lightly across Anya's forehead. Anya froze, not sure how she was supposed to react now. She was enjoying his attention, if she was honest. It felt like she hadn't had enough of it in a while. But he _was_ acting out of spite.

Apparently satisfied that she was unharmed, Gleb ran a thumb along her cheek before letting go of her face. Anya felt her cheeks burn, and she could see Nana's eyes, like daggers piercing holes into Gleb. He returned Nana's glare, and they both picked up their drinks.

"Shouldn't we be stopping them?" Anya whispered loudly to Lily.

"Someone has to finish the vodka, and I'm not letting go of this sweet little thing," Lily replied. "It won't be long anyway."

Red began to tinge Nana's neck, although her posture remained ramrod straight. Nonetheless, Gleb seemed undeterred as he tried to keep up.

Concerned, Anya nudged his foot with hers under the table. "Gleb, maybe you should ease up."

Gleb stiffened. " _Stop kicking me,_ " he hissed at Nana.

"That was me –" Anya tried to protest.

" _I will not be mistreated by the likes of you_." Another splash of vodka went into his glass and Anya winced.

Nana rolled her eyes. "Listen to your princess, and do as you're told. Know when you're beaten."

Spurred, Gleb started drinking even faster. Anya looked helplessly at Lily.

"Subordinates need to be taught their place," Nana went on mercilessly.

"Your Majesty –" Lily began hesitantly. Nana held up her hand, and Lily fell silent.

"For the good of Russia!" Nana slammed her glass down on the table.

Gleb's hand shook, and he took a shuddering breath. He hunched over his plate.

Then he burst into a sob.

" _RUSSIA,_ " he wailed.

"Oh _dear_ ," Lily exclaimed.

" _Nana,_ " Anya reached out to rub Gleb's back. "That probably wasn't the best thing to say –"

"Murderers and liars and thieves – that's what Russia is!" Nana declared. Beside her, Lily hurriedly cupped a hand over Alexei's exposed ear.

"She is _not,_ " Gleb argued thickly. His shoulders heaved harder.

"If that rat-infested spit of land were not, you would not be here, _hiding,_ " Nana retorted.

"Our rats are _clean!_ " Gleb shot back, sniffling. He knocked back another drink, and Anya tried to grab the glass from his hand.

Nana snatched the bottle, which was only a quarter full now, up. "You bathe the rats, do you? Rats are never clean – that is why they're _rats._ But filth never recognizes filth, does it?"

Gleb looked stricken, and Anya felt dread twist her insides. "Lily, we have to do something."

"You know, we could replace the vodka with water and they'll never know at this rate," Lily suggested.

"You don't know what it's _like!_ " Gleb yelled. "I had to live with rats! Why? Because we were _poor!_ Why don't _you_ recognize that?"

Nana sucked in a breath. There seemed to be hesitation on her face. Without replying, she downed another drink. Meanwhile, Gleb had buried his face in his hands.

Anya wrapped her arms around him. "Gleb, shh," she whispered soothingly into his ear. He turned to her and buried his face in her neck. Between the sniffling, she could make out mutterings of "Mama."

His mother. He had never talked about her, not once. Anya had only been able to assume that she had died before he joined the army, based on his stories. But it was clear she had been important to him, and Anya ached to know how and why.

Lily had gone to lay Alexei in his bassinet, and as soon as she returned to the table, she tried tugging the nearly-empty bottle out of Nana's hand. "I – think – we've all had – enough – vodka – Your Majesty."

"I will decide when I've had enough!" Nana snatched the bottle back.

"Your Majesty, you're not exactly…young anymore," Lily tried.

Nana stood. "I am an _adult,_ " she declared indignantly. But she stumbled and almost dropped the bottle. Lily caught it and placed it safely out of Nana's reach in the middle of the table.

"Oh," Nana mumbled, seemingly astounded at her slip. Her forehead was pink.

"Yes you are, Your Majesty," Lily commented dryly as she supported Nana on her arm and began leading her to the sofa.

At last, the night's activity seemed to be winding down. Anya glanced down at Gleb, whose crying had quieted down to whimpers. "It's over, Gleb." She rubbed his back soothingly.

His grip on her tightened. "Don't –" he began. Just then, Alexei began to cry.

"I think it's time for bed." Anya nudged Gleb gently with her shoulder.

"Help," he mumbled.

"Stay," she commanded. "I'll be fine."

Obediently, he slid his face from her neck and right into his plate. Anya sighed, trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation as she went to check on their son.

Lily glanced over from where she was sitting beside a now-sleeping Nana. "Need a hand?"

Anya looked back at the dinner table. "Can you help me watch Alexei while I take care of Gleb?"

"Of course. I'm done for the night." Lily took one last look at Nana before rising from the couch. Anya lifted Alexei into her arms, which tempered his crying a little. Behind her, Lily took up the bassinet.

He relaxed as soon as they were in the comforting darkness of his room, and Anya gently placed him into the bassinet. She leaned down and kissed his eyelids lightly.

"Be a good boy for Lily while I take care of your papa," she whispered. Alexei responded with a loud exhale through his nose.

"Of course he will. Now go before your husband drowns himself in stew," Lily hissed. Anya ran her fingers through the fringe of dark hair on Alexei's head one more time before heading back outside.

Gleb was as she had left him. He seemed to have fallen asleep on his plate, and she shook him gently. "Come on, Gleb. Time for bed."

He lifted his head, and his nose was coated in sauce. "Dinner."

"Yeah, we never quite had that," Anya muttered.

"Vodka," he mumbled.

"I hid the vodka," she replied quickly, hoping he was too far gone to spot the bottle still on the table.

He blinked at her, the picture of despair. "Anya, I thought you loved me. Why would thing do a you like that?" he whined, the words running together.

"Gleb, you're too drunk to be alive right now." Anya slung his arm across her shoulders and tried to heave him up from the chair.

With visible effort, he supported some of his weight enough for them to stand. Anya began maneuvering them in the direction of their bedroom.

"I'm drunk not," he grumbled.

"Sure you're not." She grunted as he slumped and the weight on her shoulders increased.

"I'm fine," he insisted into her hair.

The bedroom was only a short distance away, but it seemed to take forever to get there. It was a relief when she could finally let Gleb tumble off her back and drop like a stone onto the mattress.

She wet a cloth in the bathroom and carefully wiped the remains of dinner off his face as he began to breathe deeply in sleep. He looked fully at rest for the first time since their wedding, and she reached out to trace his hairline with his fingers.

There was suddenly a lot she wanted to ask him. It hadn't seemed important before – they had been in love, and all she knew was that she wanted Gleb to stay with her, hoped he could finally quell the nightmares that plagued her. Not long after that, their lives had become a whirlwind of danger, discovery, and upheaval. Before they'd had the opportunity to reconcile themselves to their new reality, Alexei came along, and life had become all about practicality.

Gleb had done his best to be happy with his lot, and he barely so much as mentioned Russia these days. But the alcohol had betrayed how much she still mattered to him. Anya's chest tightened with guilt – only when his inhibitions were loosened did he feel as though he could express his longing. She needed to let him know he was safe to miss Russia with her, that it was safe to be honest.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to his forehead – something she now knew her mother used to do for her.

"Anya?" he murmured. His eyes opened again, bleary. His hand reached out, searching, until it found her arm and tugged her down. Losing her balance, she landed on top of him.

"I love you even without vodka." With that, his eyes fluttered closed again, one hand over her back.

She could smell the drink on his breath – he would deeply regret this night in the morning. But she was going to be there, waiting with a cure and an open heart.

"I love you too."

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for liking and reviewing and wishing for more on this fic! It took a while, but we've finally gotten to The Many Stages of Drunk Gleb (aka, The Dumpster Fire and the Crying Bolshevik)!

I will be honest, this entire chapter was actually inspired by the infamous Community Pizza gif because I had no idea where I was going with this at first. Proving that ideas really can come from literally anywhere!

And I will be amiss if I don't credit my sweet child espresso-martini on Tumblr for contributing significantly to this fic by talking through ideas with me and offering so much valuable input on drunk people (I quote her verbatim in this chapter). I lov u, my girl!

I might follow up with snippets of the story from Anya's POV next time, or maybe oneshots from my vision of their far future :D

Feel free to say hi or drop into my Tumblr inbox (blue3ski) anytime! I welcome prompts, comments, violent reactions... (OK, maybe less of that :)))

Spasibo!


End file.
